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ā€œbut Sylvia must have a dress, and there is no other way. And, after all, when Iā€™m gone, who would there be to have it? Strangers would get it thenā€”it might as well go to them now. Iā€™ll have to go to town to-morrow morning, for thereā€™s no time to lose if the party is Friday night. I havenā€™t been to town for ten years. I dread the thought of going, more than parting with the jug. But for Sylviaā€™s sake!ā€

It was all over Spencervale by the next morning that Old Lady Lloyd had gone to town, carrying a carefully guarded box. Everybody wondered why she went; most people supposed she had become too frightened to keep her money in a black box below her bed, when there had been two burglaries over at Carmody, and had taken it to the bank.

The Old Lady sought out the address of the china collector, trembling with fear that she might be dead or gone. But the collector was there, very much alive, and as keenly anxious to possess the grape jug as ever. The Old Lady, pallid with the pain of her trampled pride, sold the grape jug and went away, believing that her great-grandmother must have turned over in her grave at the moment of the transaction. Old Lady Lloyd felt like a traitor to her traditions.

But she went unflinchingly to a big store and, guided by that special Providence which looks after simple-minded old souls in their dangerous excursions into the world, found a sympathetic clerk who knew just what she wanted and got it for her. The Old Lady selected a very dainty muslin gown, with gloves and slippers in keeping; and she ordered it sent at once, expressage prepaid, to Miss Sylvia Gray, in care of William Spencer, Spencervale.

Then she paid down the moneyā€”the whole price of the jug, minus a dollar and a half for railroad fareā€”with a grand, careless air and departed. As she marched erectly down the aisle of the store, she encountered a sleek, portly, prosperous man coming in. As their eyes met, the man started and his bland face flushed crimson; he lifted his hat and bowed confusedly. But the Old Lady looked through him as if he wasnā€™t there, and passed on with not a sign of recognition about her. He took one step after her, then stopped and turned away, with a rather disagreeable smile and a shrug of his shoulders.

Nobody would have guessed, as the Old Lady swept out, how her heart was seething with abhorrence and scorn. She would not have had the courage to come to town, even for Sylviaā€™s sake, if she had thought she would meet Andrew Cameron. The mere sight of him opened up anew a sealed fountain of bitterness in her soul; but the thought of Sylvia somehow stemmed the torrent, and presently the Old Lady was smiling rather triumphantly, thinking rightly that she had come off best in that unwelcome encounter. SHE, at any rate, had not faltered and coloured, and lost her presence of mind.

ā€œIt is little wonder HE did,ā€ thought the Old Lady vindictively. It pleased her that Andrew Cameron should lose, before her, the front of adamant he presented to the world. He was her cousin and the only living creature Old Lady Lloyd hated, and she hated and despised him with all the intensity of her intense nature. She and hers had sustained grievous wrong at his hands, and the Old Lady was convinced that she would rather die than take any notice of his existence.

Presently, she resolutely put Andrew Cameron out of her mind. It was desecration to think of him and Sylvia together. When she laid her weary head on her pillow that night she was so happy that even the thought of the vacant shelf in the room below, where the grape jug had always been, gave her only a momentary pang.

ā€œItā€™s sweet to sacrifice for one we loveā€”itā€™s sweet to have someone to sacrifice for,ā€ thought the Old Lady.

Desire grows by what it feeds on. The Old Lady thought she was content; but Friday evening came and found her in a perfect fever to see Sylvia in her party dress. It was not enough to fancy her in it; nothing would do the Old Lady but seeing her.

ā€œAnd I SHALL see her,ā€ said the Old Lady resolutely, looking out from her window at Sylviaā€™s light gleaming through the firs. She wrapped herself in a dark shawl and crept out, slipping down to the hollow and up the wood lane. It was a misty, moonlight night, and a wind, fragrant with the aroma of clover fields, blew down the lane to meet her.

ā€œI wish I could take your perfumeā€”the soul of youā€”and pour it into her life,ā€ said the Old Lady aloud to that wind.

Sylvia Gray was standing in her room, ready for the party. Before her stood Mrs. Spencer and Amelia Spencer and all the little Spencer girls, in an admiring semi-circle. There was another spectator. Outside, under the lilac bush, Old Lady Lloyd was standing. She could see Sylvia plainly, in her dainty dress, with the pale pink roses Old Lady Lloyd had left at the beech that day for her in her hair. Pink as they were, they were not so pink as her cheeks, and her eyes shone like stars. Amelia Spencer put up her hand to push back a rose that had fallen a little out of place, and the Old Lady envied her fiercely.

ā€œThat dress couldnā€™t have fitted better if it had been made for you,ā€ said Mrs. Spencer admiringly. ā€œAinā€™t she lovely, Amelia? Who COULD have sent it?ā€

ā€œOh, I feel sure that Mrs. Moore was the fairy godmother,ā€ said Sylvia. ā€œThere is nobody else who would. It was dear of herā€” she knew I wished so much to go to the party with Janet. I wish Aunty could see me now.ā€ Sylvia gave a little sigh in spite of her joy. ā€œThereā€™s nobody else to care very much.ā€

Ah, Sylvia, you were wrong! There was somebody elseā€” somebody who cared very muchā€”an Old Lady, with eager, devouring eyes, who was standing under the lilac bush and who presently stole away through the moonlit orchard to the woods like a shadow, going home with a vision of you in your girlish beauty to companion her through the watches of that summer night.

 

IV. The August Chapter

 

One day the ministerā€™s wife rushed in where Spencervale people had feared to tread, went boldly to Old Lady Lloyd, and asked her if she wouldnā€™t come to their Sewing Circle, which met fortnightly on Saturday afternoons.

ā€œWe are filling a box to send to our Trinidad missionary,ā€ said the ministerā€™s wife, ā€œand we should be so pleased to have you come, Miss Lloyd.ā€

The Old Lady was on the point of refusing rather haughtily. Not that she was opposed to missionsā€”or sewing circles eitherā€”quite the contrary, but she knew that each member of the Circle was expected to pay ten cents a week for the purpose of procuring sewing materials; and the poor Old Lady really did not see how she could afford it. But a sudden thought checked her refusal before it reached her lips.

ā€œI suppose some of the young girls go to the Circle?ā€ she said craftily.

ā€œOh, they all go,ā€ said the ministerā€™s wife. ā€œJanet Moore and Miss Gray are our most enthusiastic members. It is very lovely of Miss Gray to give her Saturday afternoonsā€” the only ones she has free from pupilsā€”to our work. But she really has the sweetest disposition.ā€

ā€œIā€™ll join your Circle,ā€ said the Old Lady promptly. She was determined she would do it, if she had to live on two meals a day to save the necessary fee.

She went to the Sewing Circle at James Martinā€™s the next Saturday, and did the most beautiful hand sewing for them. She was so expert at it that she didnā€™t need to think about it at all, which was rather fortunate, for all her thoughts were taken up with Sylvia, who sat in the opposite corner with Janet Moore, her graceful hands busy with a little boyā€™s coarse gingham shirt. Nobody thought of introducing Sylvia to Old Lady Lloyd, and the Old Lady was glad of it. She sewed finely away, and listened with all her ears to the girlish chatter which went on in the opposite corner. One thing she found outā€”Sylviaā€™s birthday was the twentieth of August. And the Old Lady was straightway fired with a consuming wish to give Sylvia a birthday present. She lay awake most of the night wondering if she could do it, and most sorrowfully concluded that it was utterly out of the question, no matter how she might pinch and contrive. Old Lady Lloyd worried quite absurdly over this, and it haunted her like a spectre until the next Sewing Circle day.

It met at Mrs. Mooreā€™s and Mrs. Moore was especially gracious to Old Lady Lloyd, and insisted on her taking the wicker rocker in the parlour. The Old Lady would rather have been in the sitting-room with the young girls, but she submitted for courtesyā€™s sakeā€” and she had her reward. Her chair was just behind the parlour door, and presently Janet Moore and Sylvia Gray came and sat on the stairs in the hall outside, where a cool breeze blew in through the maples before the front door.

They were talking of their favourite poets. Janet, it appeared, adored Byron and Scott. Sylvia leaned to Tennyson and Browning.

ā€œDo you know,ā€ said Sylvia softly, ā€œmy father was a poet? He published a little volume of verse once; and, Janet, Iā€™ve never seen a copy of it, and oh, how I would love to! It was published when he was at collegeā€”just a small, private edition to give his friends. He never published any moreā€”poor father! I think life disappointed him. But I have such a longing to see that little book of his verse. I havenā€™t a scrap of his writings. If I had it would seem as if I possessed something of himā€”of his heart, his soul, his inner life. He would be something more than a mere name to me.ā€

ā€œDidnā€™t he have a copy of his ownā€”didnā€™t your mother have one?ā€ asked Janet.

ā€œMother hadnā€™t. She died when I was born, you know, but Aunty says there was no copy of fatherā€™s poems among motherā€™s books. Mother didnā€™t care for poetry, Aunty saysā€”Aunty doesnā€™t either. Father went to Europe after mother died, and he died there the next year. Nothing that he had with him was ever sent home to us. He had sold most of his books before he went, but he gave a few of his favourite ones to Aunty to keep for me. HIS book wasnā€™t among them. I donā€™t suppose I shall ever find a copy, but I should be so delighted if I only could.ā€

When the Old Lady got home she took from her top bureau drawer an inlaid box of sandalwood. It held a little, slim, limp volume, wrapped in tissue paperā€”the Old Ladyā€™s most treasured possession. On the fly-leaf was written, ā€œTo Margaret, with the authorā€™s love.ā€

The Old Lady turned the yellow leaves with trembling fingers and, through eyes brimming with tears, read the verses, although she had known them all by heart for years. She meant to give the book to Sylvia for a birthday presentā€” one of the most precious gifts ever given, if the value of gifts is gauged by the measure of self-sacrifice involved. In that little book was immortal loveā€”old laughterā€” old tearsā€”old beauty which had bloomed like a rose years ago, holding still its sweetness like old rose leaves. She removed the telltale fly-leaf; and late on the night before

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