She had barely returned
home when her mother, hearing that I was going abroad, asked me to take
Sylvia with me, as she was deficient in languages, which would be a
drawback to her social career.
"It seemed a trifle strange to me, as she was then nineteen, an age when
most girls of her class are brought out, and had been away for
practically five years. But I took her gladly, and she has been a most
lovable companion and friend. She called me Aunt, to overcome the formal
Miss, and I wish she were my daughter. I'm only wondering if her high,
unworldly standpoint, absorbed from wise teachers, and the halo that she
has constructed from imagination and desire about her parents during the
years of her separation from them, will not embarrass them a little, now
that she is at home for good.
"By the way, we met in England last spring a young sub-professor, Horace
Bradford, a most unusual young man for nowadays, but of old New England
stock. He was one of Sylvia's literature instructors at Rockcliffe
College, and he joined our party during the month we spent in the
Shakespeare country. It was his first trip, and, I take it, earned by
great self-sacrifice; and his scholarly yet boyish enthusiasm added
hugely to our enjoyment.
"He spoke constantly of his mother. Do you know her? She lives on the old
place, which was a farm of the better class, I take it, his father having
been the local judge, tax collector, and general consulting factotum of
his county.
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