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Each of the two was perfectly good and ungrasping, but each accused themselves and each other unjustly because of the possibilities of wrong feeling which they realized. Sylvia did not understand how, in the face of such prosperity, she could wish Abrahama to get well, and she did not understand how her husband could, and Henry's mental attitude was the same.
I don't know what I'm such a d n fool as to tell you for, only it's like ancient history, and no harm that I can see for either the living or the dead. There was a time when, if Abrahama White had worn a face like that for me well Poor girl, she got her heart turned the way it wasn't meant to go. She had a mean, lonesome life of it.
She sat before the white dressing-table watching Sylvia, and the lovely turn of her neck and her blond head were reflected in the glass above the vase of flowers. "Yes, I knew something about it." "I never did know much, except that Aunt Abrahama did not approve of mamma's marriage, and we never saw her nor heard of her.
"I should rather have packed away my name," said Horace. "So should I. Isn't it awful? The Abrahama is simply dreadful, and the way it comes down with a sort of whack on the White! Poor Aunt Abrahama! I feel almost guilty having all her pretty jewels and being so pleased with them." "Oh, she would be pleased, too, if she knew." "I don't know.
"Miss Abrahama White, who left her property to your wife, had a sister," he said. "The sister went away and married, and there was a daughter. First the father died, then the mother. The daughter, a mere child at the time, was left entirely destitute. Miss Farrel took charge of her. She did not tell her the truth. She wished to establish if possible some claim upon her affection.
"Of course I can; but there'll be lots of time when there won't be any work to be done then what? To tell you the truth of it, Sylvia, I've had my nose held to the grindstone so long I don't know as it's in me to keep away from it and live, now." Henry had not been at work since Abrahama White's death. He had been often in Sidney Meeks's office; only Sidney Meeks saw through Henry Whitman.
Over their heads was a wonderful sky of the clearest angelic blue. This sky seemed to sing with bell-notes. "The bell is tolling," whispered Henry. They counted from that instant. When the bell stopped they looked at each other. "That's her age," said Sylvia. "Yes," said Henry. The weather was wonderful on Abrahama White's funeral day.
"If the poor girl didn't do well, Abrahama had a good deal to answer for," said Sylvia, thoughtfully. She looked worried. Then again that expression of almost idiotic joy overspread her face. "That old White homestead is beautiful the best house in town," she said. "There's fifty acres of land with it, too," said Meeks. Sylvia and Henry looked at each other. Both hesitated.
He waited for the silence to gather to its utmost intensity before he spoke. "I had something to tell you when I came in," he said, "but I thought I had better wait till after supper." He paused. There was another silence. Henry's and Sylvia's eyes seemed to wax luminous. Sidney Meeks spoke again. He was enjoying himself immensely. "What relation is Abrahama White to you?" he said.
One day he found on the bureau in their bedroom a book on an Alford savings-bank, and discovered that Sylvia had opened an account therein for Rose. Sylvia also began to give Rose expensive gifts. When the girl remonstrated, she seemed so distressed that there was nothing to do but accept them. Sylvia no longer used any of Abrahama White's clothes for herself.