BLAND MAKES A SACRIFICE Sylvia was sitting by the hearth in Ethel West's drawing-room, her neatly shod feet on the fender, her low chair on the fleecy rug, and she made a very dainty and attractive picture.

She felt the cold and hated discomfort of any kind, though it was characteristic of her that she generally succeeded in avoiding it.

Ethel sat near by, watching her with calmly curious eyes, for Sylvia was looking pensive.

Mrs.
Lansing was talking to Stephen West on the opposite side of the large room.
"How is Edgar getting on ?" Sylvia asked.

"I suppose you hear from him now and then." Ethel guessed where the question led and responded with blunt directness.
"Doesn't George write to you ?" "Not often.