“But then, why did you send for me?”
“We wanted you home.”
“But, Papa! In this fashion—surely you wouldn’t—” She stopped, and the Major turned to greet his sister.
Sylvia got into the motor, and they started. “Is Mamma well?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“And the baby?”
“Everybody is well.”
“And you, Papa?”
“I have not been so very fine, but I am better now.” Sylvia suspected he had got up from his sick-bed to come and meet her, and so her sense of dread increased. But she put no more questions—she knew she would have to wait. The Major had begun to talk about the state of the crops.
The car reached home; and there on the steps were her mother, and the baby shouting a lusty welcome, and Peggy and Maria dancing with glee—to say nothing of troops of servants, inside the house and out, grinning and waiting to be noticed. There was noise and excitement, so much that for several minutes Sylvia forgot her anxiety. Then everybody wanted to know if she had brought them presents; she had to stop and think what she had purchased, and what she had delayed to purchase, and what she had left behind in the rush of departure. Aunt Varina said something about the special train, and there were questions about that, and about Douglas van Tuiver, who had provided it. And still not a word about the mystery.