When Richard Alger went home he wore an old brown shawl of Sylvia's over his shoulders.

He had demurred a little.

"I can't go down the street with your shawl on, Sylvia," he had pleaded, but Sylvia insisted.
"You'll catch your death of cold, goin' home in your shirt-sleeves," she said.

"They won't know it's my shawl.

Men wear shawls." "You've worn this ever since I've known you, Sylvia, an' I ain't given to catchin' cold easy," said Richard almost pitifully.