Sylvia pushed her away. “There's nothing the matter with me,” she said. “Folks can't always be the same color unless they're painted.” She gave her head a shake as if to set herself right, and turned resolutely towards Rose's trunk. “Can you unpack, yourself, or do you want me to help you?” she asked.
Rose eyed the trunk helplessly, then she looked doubtfully at Sylvia. A woman who was a relative of hers, and who lived in a really grand old house, and was presumably well-to-do, and had no maids at command, but volunteered to do the service herself, was an anomaly to her.
“I'm afraid it will be too much trouble,” she said, hesitatingly. “Marie always unpacked my trunk, but you have no—”
“I guess if I had a girl I wouldn't set her to unpacking your trunk,” said Sylvia, vigorously. “Where is your key?”
“In my bag,” replied Rose, and she searched for the key in her dark-blue, gold-trimmed bag. “Mrs. Wilton's maid, Anne, packed my trunk for me,” she said. “Anne packs very nicely. Mr. Wilton and her sister, Miss Pamela Mack, did not know whether I ought to put on mourning or not for Cousin Eliza, but they said it would be only proper for me to wear black to the funeral. So I have a ready-made black gown and hat in the trunk. I hardly knew how much to bring. I did not know—” She stopped. She had intended to say—“how long I should stay,” but she was afraid.
Sylvia finished for her. “You can stay just as long as you are a mind to,” said she. “You can live here all the rest of your life, as far as that is concerned. You are welcome. It would suit me, and it would suit Mr. Whitman.”
Rose looked at Sylvia in amazement as she knelt stiffly on the floor unlocking her trunk. “Thank you, you are very kind,” she said, feebly. She had a slight sensation of fear at such a wealth of hospitality offered her from a stranger, although she was a distant relative.
“You know this was your own aunt's house and your own aunt's things,” said Sylvia, beginning to remove articles from the trunk, “and I want you to feel at home here—just as if you had a right here.” The words were cordial, but there was a curious effect as if she were repeating a well-rehearsed lesson.
“Thank you,” Rose said again, more feebly than before. She watched Sylvia lifting out gingerly a fluffy white gown, which trailed over her lean arm to the floor. “That is a tea-gown; I think I will put it on now,” said Rose. “It will be so comfortable, and you are not formal here, are you?”
“Eh?”