She could not but think of that short time of peace,
and her voice softened as she answered her daughter.
"We don't keep step, Sylvia," she said, with an uneasy laugh. "I know
that. But, after all, would you be happier with your father, even if he
wants to keep you! You have all you want here--frocks, amusement,
companions. Try to be more friendly with people."
But Sylvia merely shook her head.
"I can't go on any longer like this," she said, slowly. "I can't, mother.
If my father won't have me, I must see what I can do. Of course, I can't
do much. I don't know anything. But I am too unhappy here. I cannot
endure the life we are living without a home or--respect,--" Sylvia had
not meant to use that word. But it had slipped out before she was aware.
She broke off and turned her eyes again to her mother. They were very
bright, for the moonlight glistened upon tears. But the softness had gone
from her mother's face. She had grown in a moment hard, and her voice
rang hard as she asked:
"Why do you think that your father and I parted? Come, let me hear!"
Sylvia turned her head away.
"I don't think about it," she said, gently. "I don't want to think about
it. I just think that he left you, because you did not keep step either."
"Oh, he left me? Not I him? Then why does he write to me?"
The voice was growing harder with every word.
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