In the first week of January, Sylvie acted upon her resolve of writing to Mr. Farron Saftleigh.  She asked brief and direct questions; told him that she was obliged to request an answer without the least delay; and begged that he would render them a clear statement of all their affairs.  She reminded him that he had told them that he would be responsible for their receiving a dividend of at least four per cent, at the end of the six months.

Mr. Farron Saftleigh “told” people a great many things in his genial, exhilarating business talks, which he was a great deal too wise ever to put down on paper.

Sylvie waited ten days; a fortnight; three weeks; no answer came.  Mr. Farron Saftleigh had simply destroyed the letter, of no consequence at all as coming from a person not primarily concerned or authorized, and set off from Denver City the same day for a business visit to San Francisco.

Sylvie saw the plain fact; that they were penniless.  And this could not be told to her mother.

She went to Desire Ledwith, and asked her what she could do.

“I would go into a household anywhere, as Dot Ingraham and Bel Bree have done, to earn board and wages, and spend my money for my mother; but I can’t leave her.  And there’s no sewing work to get, even if I could do it at night and in honest spare time.  I know, as it is, that my service isn’t worth what you give me in return, and of course I cannot stay here any longer now.”

“Of course you can stay where God puts you, dear,” answered Desire Ledwith.  “Let your side of it alone for a minute, and think of mine.  If you were in my place,—­trying to live as one of the large household, remember, and looking for your opportunities,—­what would you say,—­what would you plainly hear said to you,—­about this?”

Sylvie was silent.

“Tell me truly, Sylvie.  Put it into words.  What would it be?  What would you hear?”

“Just what you do, I suppose,” said Sylvie, slowly “But I don’t hear it on my side.  My part doesn’t seem to chord.”

“Your part just pauses.  There are no notes written just here, in your score.  Your part is to wait.  Think, and see if it isn’t.  The Dakie Thaynes are going out West again.  Mr. Thayne knows about lands, and such things.  He would do something, and let you know.  A real business man would make this Saftleigh fellow afraid.”

The Thaynes—­Mrs. Dakie Thayne is our dear little old friend Ruth Holabird, you know—­had been visiting in Boston; staying partly here, and partly at Mrs. Frank Scherman’s.  At Asenath’s they were real “comfort-friends;” Asenath had the faculty of gathering only such about her.  She felt no necessity, with them, for grand, late dinners, or any show; there was no trouble or complication in her household because of them.  Ruth insisted upon the care of her own room; it was like the “cooeperative times” at Westover.  Mrs. Scherman said it was wonderful, when your links were with the right people, how simple you could make your art of living, you could actually be “quite Holabird-y,” even in Boston!  But this digresses.