“Yes, Aunt Sylvia.”
“Where are you?”
“Over here beside the window.”
“What on earth are you setting in the dark for?”
“Oh, I just thought I'd sit down here a few minutes. I was going to light the lamp soon.”
Sylvia groped her way to the mantel-shelf, found the china match-box, and struck a match. Then she lit the lamp on the bureau and looked at the girl. Rose held her face a little averted. The lighting of the room had blotted out for her the soft indeterminateness of the summer night outside, and she was a little afraid to look at Sylvia with the glare of the lamp full upon her face.
“You'll get cold setting there,” said Sylvia; “besides, folks can look right in. Get up and I'll unhook your dress.”
Rose got up. Sylvia lowered the white window-shade and Rose stood about for her gown to be unfastened. She still kept her face away from the older woman. Sylvia unfastened the muslin bodice. She looked fondly at the soft, girlish neck when it was exposed. Her lips fairly tingled to kiss it, but she put the impulse sternly from her.
“What were you and Mr. Allen talking about so long down in the orchard?” said she.
“A good many things—ever so many things,” said Rose, evasively.