“I hope not, for of all silly children, that boy was the
silliest, and he deserved to be blown up for his want of
common sense,” cried the girl, petulantly.

“Obedience is an old-fashioned virtue, which you would
do well to cultivate along with your common sense, young
lady.”

Sylvia changed the subject, for Warwick stood regarding
her with an irate expression that was somewhat alarming.
Fanning herself with the wet hat, she asked abruptly —

“Was the man hurt, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Very much?”

“Yes.”

“Can I not do something for him? He is very far from
any house, and I have some experience in wounds.”

“He is past all help, above all want now.”

“Dead, Mr. Warwick?”

“Quite dead.”

Sylvia sat down as suddenly as she had risen, and covered
her face with a shiver, remembering that her own wilfulness
had tempted a like fate, and she too, might now
have been `past help, above all want.' Warwick went
down to the pool to bathe his hot face and blackened hands;
as he returned Sylvia met him with a submissive —

“I will go back now if you are ready, sir.”

If the way had seemed long in coming it was doubly so
in returning, for neither pride nor perversity sustained her
now, and every step cost an effort. “I can rest in the boat,”
was her sustaining thought; great therefore was her dismay
when on reaching the river no boat was to be seen.

“Why, Mr. Warwick, where is it?”

“A long way down the river by this time, probably.

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

Believing that we landed only for a moment, I did not fasten
it, and the tide has carried it away.”

“But what shall we do?”

“One of two things, — spend the night here, or go round
by the bridge.”

“Is it far?”

“Some three or four miles, I think.”

“Is there no shorter way? no boat or carriage to be
had?”

“If you care to wait, I can look for our runaway, or get
a wagon from the town.”

“It is growing late and you would be gone a long time, I
suppose?”

“Probably.”

“Which had we better do?”

“I should not venture to advise. Suit yourself, I will
obey orders.”

“If you were alone what would you do?”

“Swim across.”

Sylvia looked disturbed, Warwick impenetrable, the river
wide, the road long, and the cliffs the most inaccessible
of places. An impressive pause ensued, then she said
frankly —

“It is my own fault and I'll take the consequences. I
choose the bridge and leave you the river. If I don't appear
till dawn, tell Mark I sent him a good night,” and
girding up her energies she walked bravely off with much
external composure and internal chagrin.

As before, Warwick followed in silence. For a time
she kept in advance, then allowed him to gain upon her,
and presently fell behind, plodding doggedly on through
thick and thin, vainly trying to conceal the hunger and

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

fatigue that were fast robbing her of both strength and
spirits. Adam watched her with a masculine sense of the
justice of the retribution which his wilful comrade had
brought upon herself. But as he saw the elasticity leave
her steps, the color fade from her cheeks, the resolute
mouth relax, and the wistful eyes dim once or twice with
tears of weariness and vexation, pity got the better of pique,
and he relented. His steady tramp came to a halt, and
stopping by a wayside spring, he pointed to a mossy stone,
saying with no hint of superior powers —

“We are tired, let us rest.”

Sylvia dropped down at once, and for a few minutes
neither spoke, for the air was full of sounds more pertinent
to the summer night than human voices. From the copse
behind them, came the coo of wood-pigeons, from the grass
at their feet the plaintive chirp of crickets; a busy breeze
whispered through the willow, the little spring dripped
musically from the rock, and across the meadows came the
sweet chime of a bell. Twillight was creeping over forest,
hill, and stream, and seemed to drop refreshment and repose
upon all weariness of soul and body, more grateful to
Sylvia, than the welcome seat and leafy cup of water Warwick
brought her from the spring.

The appearance of a thirsty sparrow gave her thoughts a
pleasant turn, for, sitting motionless, she watched the little
creature trip down to the pool, drink and bathe, then flying
to a willow spray, dress its feathers, dry its wings, and sit
chirping softly as if it sang its evening hymn. Warwick
saw her interest, and searching in his pocket, found the
relics of a biscuit, strewed a few bits upon the ground before
him, and began a low, sweet whistle, which rose gradually
to a varied strain, alluring, spirited, and clear as any

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

bird voice of the wood. Little sparrow ceased his twitter,
listened with outstretched neck and eager eye, hopping
restlessly from twig to twig, until he hung just over the
musician's head, agitated with a small flutter of surprise,
delight, and doubt. Gathering a crumb or two into his
hand, Warwick held it toward the bird, while softer, sweeter,
and more urgent rose the invitation, and nearer and
nearer drew the winged guest, fascinated by the spell.

Suddenly a belated blackbird lit upon the wall, surveyed
the group and burst into a jubilant song, that for a
moment drowned his rival's notes. Then, as if claiming
the reward, he fluttered to the grass, ate his fill, took a sip
from the mossy basin by the way, and flew singing over the
river, leaving a trail of music behind him. There was a
dash and daring about this which fired little sparrow with
emulation. His last fear seemed conquered, and he flew
confidingly to Warwick's palm, pecking the crumbs with
grateful chirps and friendly glances from its quick, bright
eye. It was a pretty picture for the girl to see; the man,
an image of power, in his hand the feathered atom, that,
with unerring instinct, divined and trusted the superior
nature which had not yet lost its passport to the world of
innocent delights that Nature gives to those who love her
best. Involuntarily Sylvia clapped her hands, and, startled
by the sudden sound, little sparrow skimmed away.

“Thank you for the pleasantest sight I've seen for many
a day. How did you learn this gentle art, Mr. Warwick?”

“I was a solitary boy, and found my only playmates in
the woods and fields. I learned their worth, they saw my
need, and when I asked their friendship, gave it freely.
Now we should go; you are very tired, let me help you.”

He held his hand to her, and she put her own into it with

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

a confidence as instinctive as the bird's. Then, hand in
hand they crossed the bridge and struck into the wilderness
again; climbing slopes still warm and odorous, passing
through dells full of chilly damps, along meadows spangled
with fire-flies, and haunted by sonorous frogs; over rocks
crisp with pale mosses, and between dark firs, where shadows
brooded, and melancholy breezes rocked themselves to sleep.
Speaking seldom, yet feeling no consciousness of silence, no
sense of restraint, for they no longer seemed like strangers
to one another, and this spontaneous friendliness lent an
indefinable charm to the dusky walk. Warwick found satisfaction
in the knowledge of her innocent faith in him, the
touch of the little hand he held, the sight of the quiet figure
at his side. Sylvia felt that it was pleasant to be the
object of his care, fancied that they would learn to know
each other better in three days of this free life than in as
many months at home, and rejoiced over the discovery of
unsuspected traits in him, like the soft lining of the chestnut
burr, to which she had compared him more than once
that afternoon. So, mutually and unconsciously yielding
to the influence of the hour and the mood it brought
them, they walked through the twilight in that eloquent
silence which often proves more persuasive than the most
fluent speech.

The welcome blaze of their own fire gladdened them at
length, and when the last step was taken, Sylvia sat down
with an inward conviction she never could get up again.
Warwick told their mishap in the fewest possible words,
while Mark, in a spasm of brotherly solicitude, goaded the
fire to a roar that his sister's feet might be dried, administered
a cordial as a preventive against cold, and prescribed
her hammock the instant supper was done. She went

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

away with him, but a moment after she came to Warwick
with a box of Prue's ointment and a soft handkerchief stripped
into bandages.

“What now?” he asked.

“I wish to dress your burns, sir.”

“They will do well enough with a little water; go you
and rest.”

“Mr. Warwick, you know you ate your supper with
your left hand, and put both behind you when you saw me
looking at them. Please let me make them easier; they
were burnt for me, and I shall get no sleep till I have had
my way.”

There was a curious mixture of command and entreaty
in her manner, and before their owner had time to refuse or
comply, the scorched hands were taken possession of, the
red blisters covered with a cool bandage, and the frown of
pain smoothed out of Warwick's forehead by the prospect
of relief. As she tied the last knot, Sylvia glanced up
with a look that mutely asked pardon for past waywardness,
and expressed gratitude for past help; then, as if her
heart were set at rest, she was gone before her patient could
return his thanks.

She did not reappear, Mark went to send a lad after the
lost boat, and the two friends were left alone; Warwick
watching the blaze, Moor watching him, till, with a nod
toward a pair of diminutive boots that stood turning out
their toes before the fire, Adam said —

“The wearer of those defiant-looking articles is the most
capricious piece of humanity it was ever my fortune to see.
You have no idea of the life she has led me since you left.”

“I can imagine it.”

“She is as freakish, and wears as many shapes as Puck;

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

a gnat, a will-o'-the-wisp, a Sister of Charity, a meek-faced
child; and one does not know in which guise she pleases
most. Hard the task of him who has and tries to hold
her.

“Hard yet happy; for a word will tame the high spirit,
a look touch the warm heart, a kind act be repaid with one
still kinder. She is a woman to be studied well, taught
tenderly, and, being won, cherished with an affection that
knows no shadow of a change.”

Moor spoke low, and on his face the fire-light seemed to
shed a ruddier glow than it had done before. Warwick
eyed him keenly for a moment, then said, with his usual
abruptness —

“Geoffrey, you should marry.”

“Set me the example by mortgaging your own heart,
Adam.”

“I have.”

“I thought so. Tell me the romance.”

“It is the old story — a handsome woman, a foolish man;
a few weeks of doubt, a few of happiness; then the two
stand apart to view the leap before they take it; after that,
peace or purgatory, as they choose well or ill.”

“When is the probation over, Adam?”

“In June, God willing.”

The hope of deliverance gave to Warwick's tone the
fervor of desire, and led his friend to believe in the existence
of a passion deep and strong as the heart he knew so
well. No further confessions disturbed his satisfaction, for
Warwick scorned complaint; pity he would not receive,
sympathy was powerless to undo the past, time alone would
mend it, and to time he looked for help. He rose presently
as if bedward bound, but paused behind Moor, turned his

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

face upward, and said, bending on it a look given to this
friend alone —

“If my confidence were a good gift, you should have it.
But my experience must not mar your faith in womankind.
Keep it as chivalrous as ever, and may God send you the
mate whom you deserve. Geoffrey, good night.”

“Good night, Adam.”

And with a hand-shake more expressive of affection than
many a tenderer demonstration, they parted — Warwick to
watch the stars for hours, and Moor to muse beside the fire
till the little boots were dry.

p443-086 CHAPTER V. A GOLDEN WEDDING.

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

Hitherto they had been a most decorous crew, but the
next morning something in the air seemed to cause a general
overflow of spirits, and they went up the river like a party
of children on a merry-making. Sylvia decorated herself
with garlands till she looked like a mermaid; Mark, as
skipper, issued his orders with the true Marblehead twang;
Moor kept up a fire of pun-provoking raillery; Warwick
sung like a jovial giant; while the Kelpie danced over the
water as if inspired with the universal gayety, and the very
ripples seemed to laugh as they hurried by.

“Mark, there is a boat coming up behind us with three
gentlemen in it, who evidently intend to pass us with a
great display of skill. Of course you won't let it,” said
Sylvia, welcoming the prospect of a race.

Her brother looked over his shoulder, took a critical survey,
and nodded approvingly.

“They are worth a lesson, and shall have it. Easy, now,
till they pass; then hard all, and give them a specimen of
high art.”

A sudden lull ensued on board the Kelpie while the blue
shirts approached, caught, and passed with a great display
of science, as Sylvia had prophesied, and as good an imitation
of the demeanor of experienced watermen as could be

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

assumed by a trio of studious youths not yet out of their
teens. As the foam of their wake broke against the other
boat's side, Mark hailed them —

“Good morning, gentlemen! We 'll wait for you above
there, at the bend.”

“All serene,” returned the rival helmsman, with a bow
in honor of Sylvia, while the other two caused a perceptible
increase in the speed of the “Juanita,” whose
sentimental name was not at all in keeping with its rakish
appearance.

“Short-sighted infants, to waste their wind in that style;
but they pull well for their years,” observed Mark, paternally,
as he waited till the others had gained sufficient
advantage to make the race a more equal one. “Now,
then!” he whispered a moment after; and, as if suddenly
endowed with life, the Kelpie shot away with the smooth
speed given by strength and skill. Sylvia watched both
boats, yearning to take an oar herself, yet full of admiration
for the well-trained rowers, whose swift strokes set the
river in a foam and made the moment one of pleasure and
excitement. The blue shirts did their best against competitors
who had rowed in many crafts and many waters.
They kept the advantage till near the bend, then Mark's
crew lent their reserved strength to a final effort, and bending
to their oars with a will, gained steadily, till, with a
triumphant stroke, they swept far ahead, and with oars at
rest waited in magnanimous silence till the Juanita came
up, gracefully confessing her defeat by a good-humored
cheer from her panting crew.

For a moment the two boats floated side by side, while
the young men interchanged compliments and jokes, for a
river is a highway where all travellers may salute each

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

other, and college boys are “Hail fellow! well met” with
all the world.

Sylvia sat watching the lads, and one among them struck
her fancy. The helmsman who had bowed to her was slight
and swarthy, with Southern eyes, vivacious manners, and a
singularly melodious voice. A Spaniard, she thought, and
pleased herself with this picturesque figure till a traitorous
smile about the young man's mouth betrayed that he was
not unconscious of her regard. She colored as she met the
glance of mingled mirth and admiration that he gave her,
and hastily began to pull off the weedy decorations which
she had forgotten. But she paused presently, for she heard
a surprised voice exclaim —

“Why, Warwick! is that you or your ghost?”

Looking up Sylvia saw Adam lift the hat he had pulled
over his brows, and take a slender brown hand extended over
the boat-side with something like reluctance, as he answered
the question in Spanish. A short conversation ensued, in
which the dark stranger seemed to ask innumerable questions,
Warwick to give curt replies, and the names Gabriel
and Ottila to occur with familiar frequency. Sylvia knew
nothing of the language, but received an impression that
Warwick was not overjoyed at the meeting; that the youth
was both pleased and perplexed by finding him there; and
that neither parted with much regret as the distance slowly
widened between the boats, and with a farewell salute parted
company, each taking a different branch of the river, which
divided just there.

For the first time Warwick allowed Mark to take his
place at the oar, and sat looking into the clear depths below
as if some scene lay there which other eyes could not discover.

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

“Who was the olive-colored party with the fine eyes and
foreign accent?” asked Mark, lazily rowing.

“Gabriel André.”

“Is he an Italian?”

“No; a Cuban.”

“I forgot you had tried that mixture of Spain and Alabama.
How was it?”

“As such climates always are to me, — intoxicating to-day,
enervating to-morrow.”

“How long were you there?”

“Three months.”

“I feel tropically inclined, so tell us about it.”

“There is nothing to tell.”

“I'll prove that by a catechism. Where did you stay?”

“In Havana.”

“Of course, but with whom?”

“Gabriel André.”

“The father of the saffron youth?”

“Yes.”

“Of whom did the family consist?”

“Four persons.”

“Mark, leave Mr. Warwick alone.”

“As long as he answers I shall question. Name the
four persons, Adam.”

“Gabriel, sen., Dolores his wife, Gabriel, jun., Catalina,
his sister.”

“Ah! now we progress. Was señorita Catalina as
comely as her brother?”

“More so.”

“You adored her, of course?”

“I loved her.”

“Great heavens! what discoveries we make. He likes

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

it, I know by the satirical glimmer in his eye; therefore I
continue. She adored you, of course?”

“She loved me.”

“You will return and marry her?”

“No.”

“Your depravity appals me.”

“Did I volunteer its discovery?”

“I demand it now. You left this girl believing that you
adored her?”

“She knew I was fond of her.”

“The parting was tender?”

“On her part.”

“Iceberg! she wept in your arms?”

“And gave me an orange.”

“You cherished it, of course?”

“I ate it immediately.”

“What want of sentiment! You promised to return?”

“Yes.”

“But will never keep the promise?”

“I never break one.”

“Yet will not marry her?”

“By no means.”

“Ask how old the lady was, Mark?”

“Age, Warwick?”

“Seven.”

Mark caught a crab of the largest size at this reply, and
remained where he fell, among the ruins of the castle in
Spain, which he had erected with the scanty materials
vouchsafed to him, while Warwick went back to his meditations.

A drop of rain roused Sylvia from the contemplation of
an imaginary portrait of the little Cuban girl, and looking

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

skyward she saw that the frolicsome wind had prepared a
practical joke for them in the shape of a thunder-shower.
A consultation was held, and it was decided to row on till a
house appeared, in which they would take refuge till the
storm was over. On they went, but the rain was in greater
haste than they, and a summary drenching was effected
before the toot of a dinner-horn guided them to shelter.
Landing they marched over the fields, a moist and mirthful
company, toward a red farm-house standing under venerable
elms, with a patriarchal air which promised hospitable
treatment and good cheer. A promise speedily fulfilled by
the lively old woman, who appeared with an energetic
“Shoo!” for the speckled hens congregated in the porch,
and a hearty welcome for the weather-beaten strangers.

“Sakes alive!” she exclaimed; “you be in a mess, aint
you? Come right in and make yourselves to home. Abel,
take the men folks up chamber, and fit 'em out with anything
dry you kin lay hands on. Phebe, see to this poor
little creeter, and bring her down lookin' less like a drownded
kitten. Nat, clear up your wittlin's, so 's't they kin toast
their feet when they come down; and, Cinthy, don't dish
up dinner jest yet.”

These directions were given with such vigorous illustration,
and the old face shone with such friendly zeal, that
the four submitted at once, sure that the kind soul was
pleasing herself in serving them, and finding something
very attractive in the place, the people, and their own position.
Abel, a staid farmer of forty, obeyed his mother's
order regarding the “men folks;” and Phebe, a buxom
girl of sixteen, led Sylvia to her own room, eagerly offering
her best.

As shed dried and redressed herself, Sylvia made sundry

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

discoveries, which added to the romance and the enjoyment
of the adventure. A smart gown lay on the bed in the low
chamber, also various decorations upon chair and table,
suggesting that some festival was afloat; and a few questions
elicited the facts. Grandpa had seven sons and three
daughters, all living, all married, and all blessed with flocks
of children. Grandpa's birthday was always celebrated by
a family gathering; but to-day, being the fiftieth anniversary
of his wedding, the various households had resolved
to keep it with unusual pomp; and all were coming for a
supper, a dance, and a “sing” at the end. Upon receipt
of which intelligence Sylvia proposed an immediate departure;
but the grandmother and daughter cried out at this,
pointed to the still falling rain, the lowering sky, the wet
hcap on the floor, and insisted on the strangers all remaining
to enjoy the festival, and give an added interest by their
presence.

Half promising what she wholly desired, Sylvia put on
Phebe's second best blue gingham gown for the preservation
of which she added a white apron, and completing the
whole with a pair of capacious shoes, went down to find her
party and reveal the state of affairs. They were bestowed
in the prim, best parlor, and greeted her with a peal of
laughter, for all were en costume. Abel was a stout man,
and his garments hung upon Moor with a melancholy air;
Mark had disdained them, and with an eye to effect laid
hands on an old uniform, in which he looked like a volunteer
of 1812; while Warwick's superior height placed
Abel's wardrobe out of the question; and grandpa, taller
than any of his seven goodly sons, supplied him with a sober
suit, — roomy, square-flapped, and venerable, — which became
him, and with his beard produced the curious effect

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

of a youthful patriarch. To Sylvia's relief it was unanimously
decided to remain, trusting to their own penetration
to discover the most agreeable method of returning the
favor; and regarding the adventure as a welcome change,
after two days' solitude, all went out to dinner prepared to
enact their parts with spirit.

The meal being despatched, Mark and Warwick went to
help Abel with some out-door arrangements; and begging
grandma to consider him one of her own boys, Moor tied
on an apron and fell to work with Sylvia, laying the long
table which was to receive the coming stores. True breeding
is often as soon felt by the uncultivated as by the
cultivated; and the zeal with which the strangers threw
themselves into the business of the hour won the family,
and placed them all in friendly relations at once. The old
lady let them do what they would, admiring everything, and
declaring over and over again that her new assistants “beat
her boys and girls to nothin' with their tastiness and smartness.”
Sylvia trimmed the table with common flowers till
it was an inviting sight before a viand appeared upon it,
and hung green boughs about the room, with candles here
and there to lend a festal light. Moor trundled a great
cheese in from the dairy, brought milk-pans without mishap,
disposed dishes, and caused Nat to cleave to him by
the administration of surreptitious titbits and jocular suggestions;
while Phebe tumbled about in every one's way,
quite wild with excitement; and grandma stood in her
pantry like a culinary general, swaying a big knife for a
baton, as she issued orders and marshalled her forces, the
busiest and merriest of them all.

When the last touch was given, Moor discarded his apron
and went to join Mark. Sylvia presided over Phebe's

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

toilet, and then sat herself down to support Nat through
the trying half hour before, as he expressed it, “the party
came in.” The twelve years' boy was a cripple, one of
those household blessings which, in the guise of an affliction,
keep many hearts tenderly united by a common love
and pity. A cheerful creature, always chirping like a
cricket on the hearth as he sat carving or turning bits
of wood into useful or ornamental shapes for such as cared
to buy them of him, and hoarding up the proceeds like a
little miser for one more helpless than himself.

“What are these, Nat?” asked Sylvia, with the interest
that always won small people, because their quick instincts
felt that it was sincere.

“Them are spoons — 'postle spoons, they call 'em. You
see I 've got a cousin what reads a sight, and one day he
says to me, `Nat, in a book I see somethin' about a set of
spoons with a 'postle's head on each of 'em; you make
some and they 'll sell, I bet.' So I got gramper's Bible,
found the picters of the 'postles, and worked and worked
till I got the faces good; and now it 's fun, for they do sell,
and I 'm savin' up a lot. It ain't for me, you know, but
mother, 'cause she 's wuss 'n I be.”

“Is she sick, Nat?”

“Oh, ain't she! Why she has n't stood up this nine
year. We was smashed in a wagon that tipped over when
I was three years old. It done somethin' to my legs, but it
broke her back, and made her no use, only jest to pet me,
and keep us all kind of stiddy, you know. Ain't you seen
her? Don't you want to?”

“Would she like it?”

“She admires to see folks, and asked about you at dinner;
so I guess you 'd better go see her. Look ahere, you

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

like them spoons, and I'm agoin' to give you one; I'd
give you all on 'em if they wasn't promised. I can make
one more in time, so you jest take your pick, 'cause I like
you, and want you not to forgit me.”

Sylvia chose Saint John, because it resembled Moor, she
thought; bespoke and paid for a whole set, and privately
resolved to send tools and rare woods to the little artist that
he might serve his mother in his own pretty way. Then
Nat took up his crutches and hopped nimbly before her to
the room, where a plain, serene-faced woman lay knitting,
with her best cap on, her clean handkerchief and large
green fan laid out upon the coverlet. This was evidently the
best room of the house; and as Sylvia sat talking to the invalid
her eye discovered many traces of that refinement
which comes through the affections. Nothing seemed too
good for “daughter Patience;” birds, books, flowers, and
pictures were plentiful here though visible nowhere else.
Two easy-chairs beside the bed showed where the old
folks oftenest sat; Abel's home corner was there by the
antique desk covered with farmers' literature and samples
of seeds; Phebe's work-basket stood in the window; Nat's
lathe in the sunniest corner; and from the speckless carpet
to the canary's clear water-glass all was exquisitely neat,
for love and labor were the handmaids who served the helpless
woman and asked no wages but her comfort.

Sylvia amused her new friends mightily, for finding that
neither mother nor son had any complaints to make, any
sympathy to ask, she exerted herself to give them what
both needed, and kept them laughing by a lively recital of
her voyage and its mishaps.

“Aint she prime, mother?” was Nat's candid commentary
when the story ended, and he emerged red and shiny

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

from the pillows where he had burrowed with boyish explosions
of delight.

“She's very kind, dear, to amuse two stay-at-home folks
like you and me, who seldom see what's going on outside
four walls. You have a merry heart, miss, and I hope
will keep it all your days, for it's a blessed thing to own.”

“I think you have something better, a contented one,”
said Sylvia, as the woman regarded her with no sign of
envy or regret.

“I ought to have; nine years on a body's back can
teach a sight of things that are wuth knowin'. I've learnt
patience pretty well I guess, and contentedness aint fur
away, for though it sometimes seems ruther long to look
forward to, perhaps nine more years layin' here, I jest
remember it might have been wuss, and if I don't do
much now there's all eternity to come.”

Something in the woman's manner struck Sylvia as she
watched her softly beating some tune on the sheet with her
quiet eyes turned toward the light. Many sermons had
been less eloquent to the girl than the look, the tone, the
cheerful resignation of that plain face. She stooped and
kissed it, saying gently —

“I shall remember this.”

“Hooray! there they be; I hear Ben!”

And away clattered Nat to be immediately absorbed into
the embraces of a swarm of relatives who now began to
arrive in a steady stream. Old and young, large and
small, rich and poor, with overflowing hands or trifles humbly
given, all were received alike, all hugged by grandpa,
kissed by grandma, shaken half breathless by Uncle Abel,
welcomed by Aunt Patience, and danced round by Phebe
and Nat till the house seemed a great hive of hilarious and

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

affectionate bees. At first the strangers stood apart, but
Phebe spread their story with such complimentary additions
of her own that the family circle opened wide and took
them in at once.

Sylvia was enraptured with the wilderness of babies, and
leaving the others to their own devices followed the matrons
to “Patience's room,” and gave herself up to the pleasant
tyranny of the small potentates, who swarmed over her as
she sat on the floor, tugging at her hair, exploring her
eyes, covering her with moist kisses, and keeping up a
babble of little voices more delightful to her than the discourse
of the flattered mammas who benignly surveyed her
admiration and their offspring's prowess.

The young people went to romp in the barn; the men,
armed with umbrellas, turned out en masse to inspect the
farm and stock, and compare notes over pig pens and garden
gates. But Sylvia lingered where she was, enjoying a
scene which filled her with a tender pain and pleasure, for
each baby was laid on grandma's knee, its small virtues,
vices, ailments, and accomplishments rehearsed, its beauties
examined, its strength tested, and the verdict of the family
oracle pronounced upon it as it was cradled, kissed, and
blessed on the kind old heart which had room for every
care and joy of those who called her mother. It was a
sight the girl never forgot, because just then she was ready
to receive it. Her best lessons did not come from books,
and she learned one then as she saw the fairest success of
a woman's life while watching this happy grandmother with
fresh faces framing her withered one, daughterly voices
chorusing good wishes, and the harvest of half a century of
wedded life beautifully garnered in her arms.

The fragrance of coffee and recollections of Cynthia's

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

joyful aberrations at such periods caused a breaking up of
the maternal conclave. The babies were borne away to
simmer between blankets until called for. The women
unpacked baskets, brooded over teapots, and kept up an
harmonious clack as the table was spread with pyramids of
cake, regiments of pies, quagmires of jelly, snow-banks of
bread, and gold mines of butter; every possible article of
food, from baked beans to wedding cake, finding a place on
that sacrificial altar.

Fearing to be in the way, Sylvia departed to the barn,
where she found her party in a chaotic Babel; for the offshoots
had been as fruitful as the parent tree, and some
four dozen young immortals were in full riot. The bashful
roosting with the hens on remote lofts and beams; the bold
flirting or playing in the full light of day; the boys whooping,
the girls screaming, all effervescing as if their spirits
had reached the explosive point and must find vent in noise.
Mark was in his element, introducing all manner of new
games, the liveliest of the old and keeping the revel at its
height; for rosy, bright-eyed girls were plenty, and the
ancient uniform universally approved. Warwick had a
flock of lads about him absorbed in the marvels he was
producing with knife, stick, and string; and Moor a rival
flock of little lasses breathless with interest in the tales he
told. One on each knee, two at each side, four in a row
on the hay at his feet, and the boldest of all with an arm
about his neck and a curly head upon his shoulder, for
Uncle Abel's clothes seemed to invest the wearer with a
passport to their confidence at once. Sylvia joined this
group and partook of a quiet entertainment with as childlike
a relish as any of them, while the merry tumult went
on about her.

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

The toot of the horn sent the whole barnful streaming
into the house like a flock of hungry chickens, where, by
some process known only to the mothers of large families,
every one was wedged close about the table, and the feast
began. This was none of your stand-up, wafery, bread and
butter teas, but a thorough-going, sit-down supper, and
all settled themselves with a smiling satisfaction, prophetic
of great powers and an equal willingness to employ them.
A detachment of half-grown girls was drawn up behind
grandma, as waiters; Sylvia insisted on being one of them,
and proved herself a neat-handed Phillis, though for a time
slightly bewildered by the gastronomic performances she
beheld. Babies ate pickles, small boys sequestered pie with
a velocity that made her wink, women swam in the tea, and
the men, metaphorically speaking, swept over the table like
a swarm of locusts, while the host and hostess beamed upon
one another and their robust descendants with an honest
pride, which was beautiful to see.

“That Mr. Wackett ain't eat scursely nothin', he jest
sets lookin' round kinder 'mazed like. Do go and make
him fall to on somethin', or I shan't take a mite of comfort
in my vittles,” said grandma, as the girl came with an
empty cup.

“He is enjoying it with all his heart and eyes, ma'am,
for we don't see such fine spectacles every day. I'll take
him something that he likes and make him eat it.”

“Sakes alive! be you to be Mis' Wackett? I'd no idee
of it, you look so young.”

“Nor I; we are only friends, ma'am.”

“Oh!” and the monosyllable was immensely expressive,
as the old lady confided a knowing nod to the teapot, into
whose depths she was just then peering. Sylvia walked

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

away wondering why persons were always thinking and saying
such things.

As she paused behind Warwick's chair with a glass of
cream and a round of brown bread, he looked up at her
with his blandest expression, though a touch of something
like regret was in his voice.

“This is a sight worth living eighty hard years to see, and
I envy that old couple as I never envied any one before.
To rear ten virtuous children, put ten useful men and
women into the world, and give them health and courage to
work out their own salvation as these honest souls will do,
is a better job done for the Lord, than winning a battle, or
ruling a State. Here is all honor to them. Drink it with
me.”

He put the glass to her lips, drank what she left, and
rising, placed her in his seat with the decisive air which
few resisted.

“You take no thought for yourself and are doing too
much; sit here a little, and let me take a few steps where
you have taken many.”

He served her, and standing at her back, bent now and
then to speak, still with that softened look upon the face
so seldom stirred by the gentler emotions that lay far
down in that deep heart of his; for never had he felt so
solitary.

All things must have an end, even a family feast, and
by the time the last boys buttons peremptorily announced,
`Thus far shalt thou go and no farther,' all professed themselves
satisfied, and a general uprising took place. The
surplus population were herded in parlor and chambers,
while a few energetic hands cleared away, and with much
clattering of dishes and wafting of towels, left grandma's

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

spandy clean premises as immaculate as ever. It was dark
when all was done, so the kitchen was cleared, the candles
lighted, Patience's door set open, and little Nat established
in an impromptu orchestra, composed of a table and a
chair, whence the first squeak of his fiddle proclaimed that
the ball had begun.

Everybody danced; the babies stacked on Patience's bed,
or penned behind chairs, sprawled and pranced in unsteady
mimicry of their elders. Ungainly farmers, stiff with labor,
recalled their early days and tramped briskly as they swung
their wives about with a kindly pressure of the hard hands
that had worked so long together. Little pairs toddled
gravely through the figures, or frisked promiscuously in a
grand conglomeration of arms and legs. Gallant cousins
kissed pretty cousins at exciting periods, and were not rebuked.
Mark wrought several of these incipient lovers to a
pitch of despair, by his devotion to the comeliest damsels,
and the skill with which he executed unheard-of evolutions
before their admiring eyes; Moor led out the poorest and
the plainest with a respect that caused their homely faces
to shine, and their scant skirts to be forgotten. Warwick
skimmed his five years partner through the air in a way
that rendered her speechless with delight; and Sylvia danced
as she never danced before. With sticky-fingered boys,
sleepy with repletion, but bound to last it out; with roughfaced
men who paid her paternal compliments; with smart
youths who turned sheepish with that white lady's hand in
their big brown ones, and one ambitious lad who confided
to her his burning desire to work a sawmill, and marry a
girl with black eyes and yellow hair. While, perched aloft,
Nat bowed away till his pale face glowed, till all hearts
warmed, all feet beat responsive to the good old tunes which

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

have put so much health into human bodies, and so much
happiness into human souls.

At the stroke of nine the last dance came. All down the
long kitchen stretched two breathless rows; grandpa and
grandma at the top, the youngest pair of grandchildren at
the bottom, and all between fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts,
and cousins, while such of the babies as were still extant,
bobbed with unabated vigor, as Nat struck up the Virginia
Reel, and the sturdy old couple led off as gallantly as the
young one who came tearing up to meet them. Away they
went, grandpa's white hair flying in the wind, grandma's
impressive cap awry with excitement, as they ambled down
the middle, and finished with a kiss when their tuneful
journey was done, amid immense applause from those who
regarded this as the crowning event of the day.

When all had had their turn, and twirled till they were
dizzy, a short lull took place, with refreshments for such as
still possessed the power of enjoying them. Then Phebe
appeared with an armful of books, and all settled themselves
for the family “sing.”

Sylvia had heard much fine music, but never any that
touched her like this, for, though often discordant, it was
hearty, with that under-current of feeling which adds sweetness
to the rudest lay, and is often more attractive than the
most florid ornament or faultless execution. Every one
sang as every one had danced, with all their might; shrill
children, soft-voiced girls, lullaby-singing mothers, gruff
boys, and strong-lunged men; the old pair quavered, and
still a few indefatigable babies crowed behind their little
coops. Songs, ballads, comic airs, popular melodies, and
hymns, came in rapid succession. And when they ended
with that song which should be classed with sacred music

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

for association's sake, and standing hand in hand about the
room with the golden bride and bridegroom in their midst,
sang “Home,” Sylvia leaned against her brother with dim
eyes and a heart too full to sing.

Still standing thus when the last note had soared up and
died, the old man folded his hands and began to pray. It
was an old-fashioned prayer, such as the girl had never
heard from the Bishop's lips; ungrammatical, inelegant, and
long. A quiet talk with God, manly in its straightforward
confession of short-comings, childlike in its appeal for
guidance, fervent in its gratitude for all good gifts, and the
crowning one of loving children. As if close intercourse
had made the two familiar, this human father turned to the
Divine, as these sons and daughters turned to him, as free
to ask, as confident of a reply, as all afflictions, blessings,
cares, and crosses, were laid down before him, and the work
of eighty years submitted to his hand. There were no
sounds in the room but the one voice often tremulous with
emotion and with age, the coo of some dreaming baby, or the
low sob of some mother whose arms were empty, as the old
man stood there, rugged and white atop as the granite hills,
with the old wife at his side, a circle of sons and daughters
girdling them round, and in all hearts the thought that as
the former wedding had been made for time, this golden
one at eighty must be for eternity.

While Sylvia looked and listened a sense of genuine devotion
stole over her; the beauty and the worth of prayer
grew clear to her through the earnest speech of that unlettered
man, and for the first time she fully felt the nearness
and the dearness of the Universal Father, whom she had
been taught to fear, yet longed to love.

“Now, my children, you must go before the little folks

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

are tuckered out,” said Grandpa, heartily. “Mother and
me can't say enough toe thank you for the presents you
have fetched us, the dutiful wishes you have give us, the
pride and comfort you have allers ben toe us. I aint no
hand at speeches, so I shan't make none, but jest say ef
any 'fliction falls on any on you, remember mother's here
toe help you bear it; ef any worldly loss comes toe you,
remember father's house is yourn while it stans, and so the
Lord bless and keep us all.”

“Three cheers for gramper and grammer!” roared a
six-foot scion as a safety valve for sundry unmasculine
emotions, and three rousing hurras made the rafters ring,
struck terror to the heart of the oldest inhabitant of the
rat-haunted garret, and summarily woke all the babies.

Then the good-byes began, the flurry of wrong baskets,
pails and bundles in wrong places; the sorting out of small
folk too sleepy to know or care what became of them; the
maternal cluckings, and paternal shouts for Kitty, Cy,
Ben, Bill, or Mary Ann; the piling into vehicles with
much ramping of indignant horses unused to such late
hours; the last farewells, the roll of wheels, as one by one
the happy loads departed, and peace fell upon the household
for another year.

“I declare for't, I never had sech an out an out good
time sense I was born intoe the world. Ab'ram, you are
fit to drop, and so be I; now let's set and talk it over along
of Patience fore we go toe bed.”

The old couple got into their chairs, and as they sat there
side by side, remembering that she had given no gift, Sylvia
crept behind them, and lending the magic of her voice
to the simple air, sang the fittest song for time and place—
“John Anderson my Jo.” It was too much for grandma,

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

the old heart overflowed, and reckless of the cherished cap
she laid her head on her “John's” shoulder, exclaiming
through her tears —

“That's the cap shcaf of the hull, and I can't bear no
more to-night. Ab'ram, lend me your hankchif, for I dunno
where mine is, and my face is all of a drip.”

Before the red bandana had gently performed its work
in grandpa's hand, Sylvia beckoned her party from the
room, and showing them the clear moonlight night which
followed the storm, suggested that they should both save
appearances and enjoy a novel pleasure by floating homeward
instead of sleeping. The tide against which they had
pulled in coming up would sweep them rapidly along, and
make it easy to retrace in a few hours the way they had
loitered over for three days.

The pleasant excitement of the evening had not yet subsided,
and all applauded the plan as a fit finale to their
voyage. The old lady strongly objected, but the young
people overruled her, and being re-equipped in their damaged
garments they bade the friendly family a grateful
adieu, left their more solid thanks under Nat's pillow, and
re-embarked upon their shining road.

All night Sylvia lay under the canopy of boughs her
brother made to shield her from the dew, listening to the
soft sounds about her, the twitter of a restless bird, the
bleat of some belated lamb, the ripple of a brook babbling
like a baby in its sleep. All night she watched the changing
shores, silvery green or dark with slumberous shadow,
and followed the moon in its tranquil journey through the
sky. When it set, she drew her cloak about her, and, pillowing
her head upon her arm, exchanged the waking for a
sleeping dream.

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

A thick mist encompassed her when she awoke. Above
the sun shone dimly, below rose and fell the billows of the
sea, before her sounded the city's fitful hum, and far behind
her lay the green wilderness where she had lived and
learned so much. Slowly the fog lifted, the sun came dazzling
down upon the sea, and out into the open bay they
sailed with the pennon streaming in the morning wind.
But still with backward glance the girl watched the misty
wall that rose between her and the charmed river, and still
with yearning heart confessed how sweet that brief experience
had been, for though she had not yet discovered it,
like

p443-107 CHAPTER VI. WHY SYLVIA WAS HAPPY.

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

“I never did understand you, Sylvia; and this last
month you have been a perfect enigma to me.”

With rocking-chair in full action, suspended needle and
thoughtful expression, Miss Yule had watched her sister
for ten minutes as she sat with her work at her feet, her
hands folded on her lap, and her eyes dreamily fixed on
vacancy.

“I always was to myself, Prue, and am more so than
ever now,” answered Sylvia, waking out of her reverie with
a smile that proved it had been a pleasant one.

“There must be some reason for this great change in
you. Come, tell me, dear.”

With a motherly gesture Miss Yule drew the girl to her
knee, brushed back the bright hair, and looked into the face
so freely turned to hers. Through all the years they had
been together, the elder sister had never seen before the
expression which the younger's face now wore. A vague
expectancy sat in her eyes, some nameless content sweetened
her smile, a beautiful repose replaced the varying, enthusiasm,
listlessness, and melancholy that used to haunt her
countenance and make it such a study. Miss Yule could
not read the secret of the change, yet felt its novel charm;
Sylvia could not explain it, though penetrated by its power;

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

and for a moment the sisters looked into each other's faces,
wondering why each seemed altered. Then Prue, who never
wasted much time in speculations of any kind, shook her
head, and repeated —

“I don't understand it, but it must be right, because
you are so improved in every way. Ever since that wild
trip up the river you have been growing quiet, lovable, and
cheerful, and I really begin to hope that you will become
like other people.”

“I only know that I am happy, Prue. Why it is so I
cannot tell; but now I seldom have the old dissatisfied and
restless feeling. Everything looks pleasant to me, every
one seems kind, and life begins to be both sweet and earnest.
It is only one of my moods, I suppose; but I am grateful
for it, and pray that it may last.”

So earnestly she spoke, so cheerfully she smiled, that
Miss Yule blessed the mood and echoed Sylvia's wish,
exclaiming in the next breath, with a sudden inspiration —

“My, dear, I've got it! You are growing up.”

“I think I am. You tried to make a woman of me at
sixteen, but it was impossible until the right time came.
That wild trip up the river, as you call it, did more for me
than I can ever tell, and when I seemed most like a child
I was learning to be a woman.”

“Well, my dear, go on as you've begun, and I shall be
more than satisfied. What merry-making is on foot to-night?
Mark and these friends of his keep you in constant
motion with their riding, rowing, and rambling excursions,
and if it did not agree with you so excellently, I really
should like a little quiet after a month of bustle.”

“They are only coming up as usual, and that reminds
me that I must go and dress.”

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

“There is another new change, Sylvia. You never used
to care what you wore or how you looked, no matter how
much time and trouble I expended on you and your wardrobe.
Now you do care, and it does my heart good to see
you always charmingly dressed, and looking your prettiest,”
said Miss Yule, with the satisfaction of a woman who
heartily believed in costume as well as all the other elegances
and proprieties of fashionable life.

“Am I ever that, Prue?” asked Sylvia, pausing on the
threshold with a shy yet wistful glance.

“Ever what, dear?”

“Pretty?”

“Always so to me; and now I think every one finds you
very attractive because you try to please, and seem to succeed
delightfully.”

Sylvia had never asked that question before, had never
seemed to know or care, and could not have chosen a more
auspicious moment for her frank inquiry than the present.
The answer seemed to satisfy her, and smiling at some
blithe anticipation of her own, she went away to make a
lampless toilet in the dusk, which proved how slight a hold
the feminine passion for making one's self pretty had yet
taken upon her.

The September moon was up and shining clearly over
garden, lawn, and sea, when the sound of voices called her
down. At the stair-foot she paused with a disappointed
air, for only one hat lay on the hall table, and a glance
showed her only one guest with Mark and Prue. She
strolled irresolutely through the breezy hall, looked out at
either open door, sung a little to herself, but broke off in
the middle of a line, and as if following a sudden impulse,
went out into the mellow moonlight, forgetful of uncovered

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

head or dewy damage to the white hem of her gown.
Half way down the avenue she paused before a shady nook,
and looked in. The evergreens that enclosed it made the
seat doubly dark to eyes inured to the outer light, and seeing
a familiar seeming figure sitting with its head upon its
hand, Sylvia leaned in, saying, with a daughterly caress —

“Why, what is my romantie father doing here?”

The sense of touch was quicker than that of sight, and
with an exclamation of surprise she had drawn back before
Warwick replied —

“It is not the old man, but the young one, who is romancing
here.”

“I beg your pardon! We have been waiting for you;
what thought is so charming that you forgot us all?”

Sylvia was a little startled, else she would scarcely have
asked so plain a question. But Warwick often asked much
blunter ones, always told the naked truth without prevarication
or delay, and straightway answered —

“The thought of the woman whom I hope to make my
wife.”

Sylvia stood silent for a moment as if intent on fastening
in her hair the delicate spray of hop-bells just gathered
from the vine that formed a leafy frame for the graceful
picture which she made standing, with uplifted arms, behind
the arch. When she spoke it was to say, as she
moved on toward the house —

“It is too beautiful a night to stay in doors, but Prue is
waiting for me, and Mark wants to plan with you about
our ride to-morrow. Shall we go together?”

She beckoned, and he came out of the shadow showing
her an expression which she had never seen before. His
face was flushed, his eye unquiet, his manner eager yet

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

restrained. She had seen him intellectually excited many
times; never emotionally till now. Something wayward,
yet warm, in this new mood attracted her, because so like
her own. But with a tact as native as her sympathy she
showed no sign of this, except in the attentive look she
fixed upon him as the moonlight bathed him in its splendor.
He met the glance, seemed to interpret it aright, but
did not answer its unconscious inquiry; for pausing, he
asked abruptly —

“Should a rash promise be considered binding when it
threatens to destroy one's peace?”

Sylvia pondered an instant before she answered slowly —

“If the promise was freely given, no sin committed in its
keeping, and no peace troubled but one's own, I should say
yes.”

Still pausing, he looked down at her with that unquiet
glance as she looked up with her steady one, and with the
same anxiety he asked —

“Would you keep such a promise inviolate, even though
it might cost you the sacrifice of something dearer to you
than your life?”

She thought again, and again looked up, answering with
the sincerity that he had taught her —

“It might be unwise, but if the sacrifice was not one of
principle or something that I ought to love more than life,
I think I should keep the promise as religiously as an
Indian keeps a vow of vengeance.”

As she spoke, some recollection seemed to strike Warwick
like a sudden stab. The flush died out of his face, the fire
from his eyes, and an almost grim composure fell upon him
as he said low to himself, with a forward step as if eager
to leave some pain behind him —

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

“It is better so; for his sake I will leave all to time.”

Sylvia saw his lips move, but caught no sound till he
said with a gravity that was almost gloom —

“I think you would; therefore, beware how you bind
yourself with such verbal bonds. Let us go in.”

They went; Warwick to the drawing-room, but Sylvia
ran up stairs for the Berlin wools, which in spite of heat
and the sure staining of fingers were to be wound that
night according to contract, for she kept a small promise
as sacredly as she would have done a greater one.

“What have you been doing to give yourself such an
uplifted expression, Sylvia?” said Mark, as she came in.

“Feasting my eyes on lovely colors. Does not that look
like a folded rainbow?” she answered, laying her brilliant
burden on the table where Warwick sat examining a broken
reel, and Prue was absorbed in getting a carriage blanket
under way.

“Come, Sylvia, I shall soon be ready for the first shade,”
she said, clashing her formidable needles. “Is that past
mending, Mr. Warwick?”

“Yes, without better tools than a knife, two pins, and a
bodkin.”

“Then you must put the skeins on a chair, Sylvia. Try
not to tangle them, and spread your handkerchief in your
lap, for that maroon color will stain sadly. Now don't
speak to me, for I must count my stitches.”

Sylvia began to wind the wools with a swift dexterity as
natural to her hands as certain little graces of gesture
which made their motions pleasant to watch. Warwick
never rummaged work-baskets, gossipped, or paid compliments
for want of something to do. If no little task appeared
for them, he kept his hands out of mischief, and if

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

nothing occurred to make words agreeable or necessary, he
proved that he understood the art of silence, and sat with
those vigilant eyes of his fixed upon whatever object attracted
them. Just then the object was a bright band slipping
round the chair-back, with a rapidity that soon produced a
snarl, but no help till patient fingers had smoothed and
wound it up. Then, with the look of one who says to himself,
“I will!” he turned, planted himself squarely before
Sylvia, and held out his hands.

“Here is a reel that will neither tangle nor break your
skeins, will you use it?”

“Yes, thank you, and in return I'll wind your color first.”

“Which is my color?”

“This fine scarlet, strong, enduring, and martial, like
yourself.”

“You are right.”

“I thought so; Mr. Moor prefers blue, and I violet.”

“Blue and red make violet,” called Mark from his corner,
catching the word “color,” though busy with a sketch for a
certain fair Jessie Hope.

Moor was with Mr. Yule in his study, Prue mentally
wrapped in her blanket, and when Sylvia was drawn into
an artistic controversy with her brother, Warwick fell into
deep thought.

With the pride of a proud man once deceived, he had
barred his heart against womankind, resolving that no second
defeat should oppress him with that distrust of self and
others, which is harder for a generous nature to bear, than
the pain of its own wound. He had yet to learn that the
shadow of love suggests its light, and that they who have
been cheated of the food, without which none can truly live,
long for it with redoubled hunger. Of late he had been

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

discovering this, for a craving, stronger than his own strong
will, possessed him. He tried to disbelieve and silence it;
attacked it with reason, starved it with neglect, and chilled it
with contempt. But when he fancied it was dead, the longing
rose again, and with a clamorous cry, undid his work. For
the first time, this free spirit felt the master's hand, confessed
a need its own power could not supply, and saw that
no man can live alone on even the highest aspirations without
suffering for the vital warmth of the affections. A
month ago he would have disdained the hope that now was
so dear to him. But imperceptibly the influences of domestic
life had tamed and won him. Solitude looked barren,
vagrancy had lost its charm; his life seemed cold and bare,
for, though devoted to noble aims, it was wanting in the
social sacrifices, cares, and joys, that foster charity, and
sweeten character. An impetuous desire to enjoy the rich
experience which did so much for others, came over him to-night
as it had often done while sharing the delights of this
home, where he had made so long a pause. But with the
desire came a memory that restrained him better than his
promise. He saw what others had not yet discovered, and
obeying the code of honor which governs a true gentleman,
loved his friend better than himself and held his
peace.

The last skein came, and as she wound it, Sylvia's glance
involuntarily rose from the strong hands to the face above
them, and lingered there, for the penetrating gaze was averted,
and an unwonted mildness inspired confidence as its
usual expression of power commanded respect. His silence
troubled her, and with curious yet respectful scrutiny, she
studied his face as she had never done before. She found
it full of a noble gravity and kindliness; candor and

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courage spoke in the lines of the mouth, benevolence and intellect
in the broad arch of the forehead, ardor and energy in
the fire of the eye, and on every lineament the stamp of that
genuine manhood, which no art can counterfeit. Intent
upon discovering the secret of the mastery he exerted over
all who approached him, Sylvia had quite forgotten herself,
when suddenly Warwick's eyes were fixed full upon her own.
What spell lay in them she could not tell, for human eye
had never shed such sudden summer over her. Admiration
was not in it, for it did not agltate; nor audacity, for it did
not abash; but something that thrilled warm through blood
and nerves, that filled her with a glad submission to some
power, absolute yet tender, and caused her to turn her innocent
face freely to his gaze, letting him read therein a
sentiment for which she had not yet found a name.

It lasted but a moment; yet in that moment, each saw
the other's heart, and each turned a new page in the romance
of their lives. Sylvia's eyes fell first, but no blush
followed, no sign of anger or perplexity, only a thoughtful
silence, which continued till the last violet thread dropped
from his hands, and she said almost regretfully —

“This is the end.”

“Yes, this is the end.”

As he echoed the words Warwick rose suddenly and went
to talk with Mark, whose sketch was done. Sylvia sat a
moment as if quite forgetful where she was, so absorbing
was some thought or emotion. Presently she seemed to
glow and kindle with an inward fire; over face and forehead
rushed an impetuous color, her eyes shone, and her lips
trembled with the fluttering of her breath. Then a panic
appeared to seize her, for, stealing noiselessly away, she
hurried to her room, and covering up her face as if to hide

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it even from herself, whispered to that full heart of hers,
with quick coming tears that belied the words —

“Now I know why I am happy!”

How long she lay there weeping and smiling in the moonlight
she never knew. Her sister's call broke in upon the
first love dream she had ever woven for herself, and she
went down to bid the friends good night. The hall was
only lighted by the moon, and in the dimness of the shadow
where she stood, no one saw traces of that midsummer
shower on her cheeks, or detected the soft trouble in her
eye, but for the first time Moor felt her hand tremble in
his own and welcomed the propitious omen.

Being an old-fashioned gentleman, Mr. Yule preserved in
his family the pleasant custom of hand-shaking, which
gives such heartiness to the morning and evening greetings
of a household. Moor liked and adopted it; Warwick
had never done so, but that night he gave a hand to Prue
and Mark with his most cordial expression, and Sylvia felt
both her own taken in a warm lingering grasp, although he
only said “good by!” Then they went; but while the
three paused at the door held by the beauty of the night,
back to them on the wings of the wind came Warwick's
voice singing the song that Sylvia loved. All down the
avenue, and far along the winding road they traced his progress,
till the strain died in the distance leaving only the
echo of the song to link them to the singer.

When evening came again Sylvia waited on the lawn
to have the meeting over in the dark, for love made her
very shy. But Moor came alone, and his first words were,

“Comfort me, Sylvia, Adam is gone. He went as unexpectedly
as he came, and when I woke this morning a
note lay at my door, but my friend was not there.”

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She murmured some stereotyped regret, but there was a
sharp pain at her heart till there came to her the remembrance
of Warwick's question, uttered on the spot where she
was standing. Some solace she must have, and clinging to
this one thought hopefully within herself —

“He has made some promise, has gone to get released
from it, and will come back to say what he looked last
night. He is so true I will believe in him and wait.”

She did wait, but week after week went by and Warwick
did not come.

p443-118 CHAPTER VII. DULL BUT NECESSARY.

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Whoever cares only for incident and action in a book
had better skip this chapter and read on; but those who
take an interest in the delineation of character will find the
key to Sylvia's here.

John Yule might have been a poet, painter, or philanthropist,
for Heaven had endowed him with fine gifts; he was a
prosperous merchant with no ambition but to leave a fortune
to his children and live down the memory of a bitter past.
On the threshold of his life he stumbled and fell; for as
he paused there, waiting for the first step to appear, Providence
tested and found him wanting. On one side, Poverty
offered the aspiring youth her meagre hand; but he was not
wise enough to see the virtues hidden under her hard
aspect, nor brave enough to learn the stern yet salutary
lessons which labor, necessity, and patience teach, giving to
those who serve and suffer the true success. On the other
hand Opulence allured him with her many baits, and, silencing
the voice of conscience, he yielded to temptation and
wrecked his nobler self.

A loveless marriage was the price he paid for his ambition;
not a costly one, he thought, till time taught him that
whosoever mars the integrity of his own soul by transgressing
the great laws of life, even by so much as a hair's

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breadth, entails upon himself and heirs the inevitable
retribution which proves their worth and keeps them sacred.
The tie that bound and burdened the unhappy twain, worn
thin by constant friction, snapped at last, and in the solemn
pause death made in his busy life, there rose before him
those two ghosts who sooner or later haunt us all, saying
with reproachful voices, — “This I might have been,” and
“This I am.” Then he saw the failure of his life. At
fifty he found himself poorer than when he made his momentous
choice; for the years that had given him wealth,
position, children, had also taken from him youth, self-respect,
and many a gift whose worth was magnified by loss.
He endeavored to repair the fault so tardily acknowledged,
but found it impossible to cancel it when remorse, embittered
effort, and age left him powerless to redeem the rich inheritance
squandered in his prime.

If ever man received punishment for a self-inflicted
wrong it was John Yule. A punishment as subtle as the
sin; for in the children growing up about him every relinquished
hope, neglected gift, lost aspiration, seemed to live
again; yet on each and all was set the direful stamp of
imperfection, which made them visible illustrations of the
great law broken in his youth.

In Prudence, as she grew to womanhood, he saw his own
practical tact and talent, nothing more. She seemed the
living representative of the years spent in strife for profit,
power, and place; the petty cares that fret the soul, the
mercenary schemes that waste a life, the worldly formalities,
frivolities, and fears, that so belittle character. All these
he saw in this daughter's shape; and with pathetic patience
bore the daily trial of an over active, over anxious, affectionate
but most prosaic child.

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In Mark he saw his ardor for the beautiful, his love of
the poetic, his reverence for genius, virtue, heroism. But
here too the subtle blight had fallen. This son, though
strong in purpose was feeble in performance; for some
hidden spring of power was wanting, and the shadow of
that earlier defeat chilled in his nature the energy which is
the first attribute of all success. Mark loved poetry, and
“wrote in numbers for the numbers came;” but, whether
tragic, tender, or devout, in each attempt there was enough
of the divine fire to warm them into life, yet not enough to
gift them with the fervor that can make a line immortal,
and every song was a sweet lament for the loftier lays that
might have been. He loved art and gave himself to it;
but though studying all forms of beauty he never reached
its soul, and every effort tantalized him with fresh glimpses
of the fair ideal which he could not reach. He loved the
true, but high thoughts seldom blossomed into noble deeds;
for when the hour came the man was never ready, and disappointment
was his daily portion. A sad fate for the son,
a far sadder one for the father who had bequeathed it to
him from the irrecoverable past.

In Sylvia he saw, mysteriously blended, the two natures
that had given her life, although she was born when the
gulf between regretful husband and sad wife was widest.
As if indignant Nature rebelled against the outrage done
her holiest ties, adverse temperaments gifted the child with
the good and ill of each. From her father she received
pride, intellect, and will; from her mother passion, imagination,
and the fateful melancholy of a woman defrauded
of her dearest hope. These conflicting temperaments, with
all their aspirations, attributes, and inconsistencies, were
woven into a nature fair and faulty; ambitious, yet not

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self-reliant; sensitive, yet not keen-sighted. These two
masters ruled soul and body, warring against each other,
making Sylvia an enigma to herself and her life a train of
moods.

A wise and tender mother would have divined her nameless
needs, answered her vague desires, and through the
medium of the most omnipotent affection given to humanity,
have made her what she might have been. But Sylvia had
never known mother-love, for her life came through death;
and the only legacy bequeathed her was a slight hold upon
existence, a ceaseless craving for affection, and the shadow
of a tragedy that wrung from the pale lips, that grew cold
against her baby cheek, the cry, “Free at last, thank God for that!”

Prudence could not fill the empty place, though the
good-hearted housewife did her best. Neither sister understood
the other, and each tormented the other through her
very love. Prue unconsciously exasperated Sylvia, Sylvia
unconsciously shocked Prue, and they hitched along together
each trying to do well and each taking diametrically opposite
measures to effect her purpose. Mark briefly but
truly described them when he said, “Sylvia trims the
house with flowers, but Prudence dogs her with a dustpan.”

Mr. Yule was now a studious, melancholy man, who,
having said one fatal “No” to himself, made it the satisfaction
of his life to say a never varying “Yes” to his
children. But though he left no wish of theirs ungratified,
he seemed to have forfeited his power to draw and hold
them to himself. He was more like an unobtrusive guest
than a master in his house. His children loved, but never
clung to him, because unseen yet impassible, rose the

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barrier of an instinctive protest against the wrong done their
dead mother, unconscious on their part but terribly significant
to him.

Mark had been years away; and though the brother and
sister were tenderly attached, sex, tastes, and pursuits kept
them too far apart, and Sylvia was solitary even in this
social seeming home. Dissatisfied with herself, she endeavored
to make her life what it should be with the energy
of an ardent, aspiring nature; and through all experiences,
sweet or bitter, all varying moods, successes and defeats, a
sincere desire for happiness the best and highest, was
the little rushlight of her soul that never wavered or went
out.

She never had known friendship in its truest sense, for
next to love it is the most abused of words. She had
called many “friend,” but was still ignorant of that sentiment,
cooler than passion, warmer than respect, more just
and generous than either, which recognizes a kindred spirit
in another, and claiming its right, keeps it sacred by the
wise reserve that is to friendship what the purple bloom is
to the grape, a charm which once destroyed can never be
restored. Love she had desired, yet dreaded, knowing her
own passionate nature, and when it came to her, making
that brief holiday the fateful point of her life, she gave
herself to it wholly. Before that time she had rejoiced
over a more tranquil pleasure, and believed that she had
found her friend in the neighbor who after long absence
had returned to his old place.

Nature had done much for Geoffrey Moor, but the wise
mother also gave him those teachers to whose hard lessons
she often leaves her dearest children. Five years spent in
the service of a sister, who, through the sharp discipline of

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pain was fitting her meek soul for heaven, had given him an
experience such as few young men receive. This fraternal
devotion proved a blessing in disguise; it preserved him
from any profanation of his youth, and the companionship
of the helpless creature whom he loved had proved an
ever present stimulant to all that was best and sweetest in
the man. A single duty faithfully performed had set the
seal of integrity upon his character, and given him grace to
see at thirty the rich compensation he had received for the
ambitions silently sacrificed at twenty five. When his
long vigil was over he looked into the world to find his place
again. But the old desires were dead, the old allurements
had lost their charm, and while he waited for time to show
him what good work he should espouse, no longing was so
strong as that for a home, where he might bless and be
blessed in writing that immortal poem a virtuous and
happy life.

Sylvia soon felt the power and beauty of this nature,
and remembering how well he had ministered to a physical
affliction, often looked into the face whose serenity was a
perpetual rebuke, longing to ask him to help and heal the
mental ills that perplexed and burdened her. Moor soon
divined the real isolation of the girl, read the language of
her wistful eyes, felt that he could serve her, and invited
confidence by the cordial alacrity with which he met her
least advance.

But while he served he learned to love her, for Sylvia,
humble in her own conceit, and guarded by the secret passion
that possessed her, freely showed the regard she felt,
with no thought of misapprehension, no fear of consequences.
Unconscious that such impulsive demonstration
made her only more attractive, that every manifestation of

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her frank esteem was cherished in her friend's heart of
hearts, and that through her he was enjoying the blossom
time of life. So peacefully and pleasantly the summer
ripened into autumn and Sylvia's interest into an enduring
friendship.

p443-125 CHAPTER VIII. NO.

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Drawn curtains shut out the frosty night, the first fire
of the season burned upon the hearth, and basking in its
glow sat Sylvia, letting her thoughts wander where they
would. As books most freely open at pages oftenest read,
the romance of her summer life seldom failed to unclose at
passages where Warwick's name appeared. Pleasant as
were many hours of that time, none seemed so full of
beauty as those passed with him, and sweetest of them all
the twilight journey hand in hand. It now returned to
her so freshly that she seemed to hear again the evening
sounds, to feel the warm, fern-scented wind blow over her,
to see the strong hand offered helpfully, and with an impulse
past control she stretched her own to that visionary
Warwick as the longing of her heart found vent in an
eager

“Come!”

“I am here.”

A voice replied, a hand pressed hers, and springing up
she saw, not Adam, but Moor, standing beside her with a
beaming face. Concealing the thrill of joy, the pang of
pain he had brought her, she greeted him cordially, and
reseating herself, instinctively tried to turn the current of
her thoughts.

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