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Moods

by Louisa May Alcott · English · Gutenberg #28203 · 494,934 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Moods

Author: Louisa May Alcott


        
Release date: February 27, 2009 [eBook #28203]
                Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOODS ***




Produced by David Edwards, Meredith Bach, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)







[Illustration]




 Moods

 by

 _Louisa M. Alcott._




 MOODS.

 BY

 LOUISA M. ALCOTT.


 AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL," "HOSPITAL SKETCHES."


    "Life is a train of moods like a string of beads; and as we pass
    through them they prove to be many colored lenses, which paint the
    world their own hue, and each shows us only what lies in its own
    focus."                                                  EMERSON.


 LORING, Publisher,
 319 WASHINGTON STREET,
 BOSTON.




 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
 A. K. LORING,
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
 Massachusetts.




CONTENTS.


                                               PAGE.

 CHAPTER I.

 IN A YEAR                                         7

 CHAPTER II.

 WHIMS                                            21

 CHAPTER III.

 AFLOAT                                           39

 CHAPTER IV.

 THROUGH FLOOD, AND FIELD, AND FIRE               57

 CHAPTER V.

 A GOLDEN WEDDING                                 81

 CHAPTER VI.

 WHY SYLVIA WAS HAPPY                            102

 CHAPTER VII.

 DULL, BUT NECESSARY                             113

 CHAPTER VIII.

 NO                                              120

 CHAPTER IX.

 HOLLY                                           130

 CHAPTER X.

 YES                                             141

 CHAPTER XI.

 WOOING                                          149

 CHAPTER XII.

 WEDDING                                         158

 CHAPTER XIII.

 SYLVIA'S HONEYMOON                              165

 CHAPTER XIV.

 A FIRESIDE FETE                                 183

 CHAPTER XV.

 EARLY AND LATE                                  195

 CHAPTER XVI.

 IN THE TWILIGHT                                 206

 CHAPTER XVII.

 ASLEEP AND AWAKE                                223

 CHAPTER XVIII.

 WHAT NEXT?                                      238

 CHAPTER XIX.

 SIX MONTHS                                      259

 CHAPTER XX.

 COME                                            270

 CHAPTER XXI.

 OUT OF THE SHADOW                               285




MOODS.




CHAPTER I.

IN A YEAR.


The room fronted the west, but a black cloud, barred with red, robbed
the hour of twilight's tranquil charm. Shadows haunted it, lurking in
corners like spies set there to watch the man who stood among them mute
and motionless as if himself a shadow. His eye turned often to the
window with a glance both vigilant and eager, yet saw nothing but a
tropical luxuriance of foliage scarcely stirred by the sultry air heavy
with odors that seemed to oppress not refresh. He listened with the same
intentness, yet heard only the clamor of voices, the tramp of feet, the
chime of bells, the varied turmoil of a city when night is defrauded of
its peace by being turned to day. He watched and waited for something;
presently it came. A viewless visitant, welcomed by longing soul and
body as the man, with extended arms and parted lips received the
voiceless greeting of the breeze that came winging its way across the
broad Atlantic, full of healthful cheer for a home-sick heart. Far out
he leaned; held back the thick-leaved boughs already rustling with a
grateful stir, chid the shrill bird beating its flame-colored breast
against its prison bars, and drank deep draughts of the blessed wind
that seemed to cool the fever of his blood and give him back the vigor
he had lost.

A sudden light shone out behind him filling the room with a glow that
left no shadow in it. But he did not see the change, nor hear the step
that broke the hush, nor turn to meet the woman who stood waiting for a
lover's welcome. An indefinable air of sumptuous life surrounded her,
and made the brilliant room a fitting frame for the figure standing
there with warm-hued muslins blowing in the wind. A figure full of the
affluent beauty of womanhood in its prime, bearing unmistakable marks of
the polished pupil of the world in the grace that flowed through every
motion, the art which taught each feature to play its part with the ease
of second nature and made dress the foil to loveliness. The face was
delicate and dark as a fine bronze, a low forehead set in shadowy waves
of hair, eyes full of slumberous fire, and a passionate yet haughty
mouth that seemed shaped alike for caresses and commands.

A moment she watched the man before her, while over her countenance
passed rapid variations of pride, resentment, and tenderness. Then with
a stealthy step, an assured smile, she went to him and touched his hand,
saying, in a voice inured to that language which seems made for lovers'
lips--

"Only a month betrothed, and yet so cold and gloomy, Adam!"

With a slight recoil, a glance of soft detestation veiled and yet
visible, Warwick answered like a satiric echo--

"Only a month betrothed, and yet so fond and jealous, Ottila!"

Unchilled by the action, undaunted by the look, the white arm took him
captive, the beautiful face drew nearer, and the persuasive voice asked
wistfully--

"Was it of me you thought when you turned with that longing in your
eye?"

"No."

"Was it of a fairer or a dearer friend than I?"

"Yes."

The black brows contracted ominously, the mouth grew hard, the eyes
glittered, the arm became a closer bond, the entreaty a command.

"Let me know the name, Adam."

"Self-respect."

She laughed low to herself, and the mobile features softened to their
former tenderness as she looked up into that other face so full of an
accusing significance which she would not understand.

"I have waited two long hours; have you no kinder greeting, love?"

"I have no truer one. Ottila, if a man has done unwittingly a weak,
unwise, or wicked act, what should he do when he discovers it?"

"Repent and mend his ways; need I tell you that?"

"I have repented; will you help me mend my ways?"

"Confess, dear sinner; I will shrive you and grant absolution for the
past, whatever it may be."

"How much would you do for love of me?"

"Anything for you, Adam."

"Then give me back my liberty."

He rose erect and stretched his hands to her with a gesture of entreaty,
an expression of intense desire. Ottila fell back as if the forceful
words and action swept her from him. The smile died on her lips, a
foreboding fear looked out at her eyes, and she asked incredulously--

"Do you mean it?"

"Yes; now, entirely, and forever!"

If he had lifted his strong arm and struck her, it would not have
daunted with such pale dismay. An instant she stood like one who saw a
chasm widening before her, which she had no power to cross. Then as if
disappointment was a thing impossible and unknown, she seized the
imploring hands in a grasp that turned them white with its passionate
pressure as she cried--

"No, I will not! I have waited for your love so long I cannot give it
up; you shall not take it from me!"

But as if the words had made the deed irrevocable, Warwick put her away,
speaking with the stern accent of one who fears a traitor in himself.

"I cannot take from you what you never had. Stand there and hear me. No;
I will have no blandishments to keep me from my purpose, no soft words
to silence the hard ones I mean to speak, no more illusions to hide us
from each other and ourselves."

"Adam, you are cruel."

"Better seem cruel than be treacherous; better wound your pride now than
your heart hereafter, when too late you discover that I married you
without confidence, respect, or love. For once in your life you shall
hear the truth as plain as words can make it. You shall see me at my
best as at my worst; you shall know what I have learned to find in you;
shall look back into the life behind us, forward into the life before
us, and if there be any candor in you I will wring from you an
acknowledgment that you have led me into an unrighteous compact.
Unrighteous, because you have deceived me in yourself, appealed to the
baser, not the nobler instincts in me, and on such a foundation there
can be no abiding happiness."

"Go on, I will hear you." And conscious that she could not control the
will now thoroughly aroused, Ottila bent before it as if meekly ready to
hear all things for love's sake.

A disdainful smile passed over Warwick's face, as with an eye that fixed
and held her own, he rapidly went on, never pausing to choose smooth
phrases or soften facts, but seeming to find a relish in the utterance
of bitter truths after the honeyed falsehood he had listened to so long.
Yet through all the harshness glowed the courage of an upright soul, the
fervor of a generous heart.

"I know little of such things and care less; but I think few lovers pass
through a scene such as this is to be, because few have known lives like
ours, or one such as we. You a woman stronger for good or ill than those
about you, I a man untamed by any law but that of my own will. Strength
is royal, we both possess it; as kings and queens drop their titles in
their closets, let us drop all disguises and see each other as God sees
us. This compact must be broken; let me show you why. Three months ago I
came here to take the chill of an Arctic winter out of blood and brain.
I have done so and am the worse for it. In melting frost I have kindled
fire; a fire that will burn all virtue out of me unless I quench it at
once. I mean to do so, because I will not keep the ten commandments
before men's eyes and break them every hour in my heart."

He paused a moment, as if hotter words rose to his lips than generosity
would let him utter, and when he spoke again there was more reproach
than anger in his voice.

"Ottila, till I knew you I loved no woman but my mother; I wooed no
wife, bought no mistress, desired no friend, but led a life austere as
any monk's, asking only freedom and my work. Could you not let me keep
my independence? Were there not men enough who would find no degradation
in a spiritual slavery like this? Would nothing but my subjection
satisfy your unconquerable appetite for power?"

"Did I seek you, Adam?"

"Yes! Not openly, I grant, your art was too fine for that; you shunned
me that I might seek you to ask why. In interviews that seemed to come
by chance, you tried every wile a woman owns, and they are many. You
wooed me as such as you alone can woo the hearts they know are hardest
to be won. You made your society a refreshment in this climate of the
passions; you hid your real self and feigned that for which I felt most
honor. You entertained my beliefs with largest hospitality; encouraged
my ambitions with a sympathy so genial that I thought it genuine;
professed my scorn for shammery, and seemed an earnest woman, eager to
find the true, to do the right; a fit wife for any man who desired a
helpmate, not a toy. It showed much strength of wit and will to conceive
and execute the design. It proved your knowledge of the virtues you
could counterfeit so well, else I never should have been where I am
now."

"Your commendation is deserved, though so ungently given, Adam."

"There will be no more of it. If I am ungentle, it is because I despise
deceit, and you possess a guile that has given me my first taste of
self-contempt, and the draught is bitter. Hear me out; for this
reminiscence is my justification; you must listen to the one and accept
the other. You seemed all this, but under the honest friendliness you
showed lurked the purpose you have since avowed, to conquer most
entirely the man who denied your right to rule by the supremacy of
beauty or of sex alone. You saw the unsuspected fascination that
detained me here when my better self said 'Go.' You allured my eye with
loveliness, my ear with music; piqued curiosity, pampered pride, and
subdued will by flatteries subtly administered. Beginning afar off, you
let all influences do their work till the moment came for the effective
stroke. Then you made a crowning sacrifice of maiden modesty and owned
you loved me."

Shame burned red on Ottila's dark cheek, and ire flamed up in her eyes,
as the untamable spirit of the woman answered against her will--

"It was not made in vain; for, rebellious as you are, it subdued you,
and with your own weapon, the bare truth."

He had said truly, "You shall see me at my best as at worst." She did,
for putting pride underneath his feet he showed her a brave sincerity,
which she could admire but never imitate, and in owning a defeat
achieved a victory.

"You think I shall deny this. I do not, but acknowledge to the uttermost
that, in spite of all resistance, I was conquered by a woman. If it
affords you satisfaction to hear this, to know that it is hard to say,
harder still to feel, take the ungenerous delight; I give it to you as
an alms. But remember that if I have failed, no less have you. For in
that stormy heart of yours there is no sentiment more powerful than that
you feel for me, and through it you will receive the retribution you
have brought upon yourself. You were elated with success, and forgot too
soon the character you had so well supported. You thought love blinded
me, but there was no love; and during this month I have learned to know
you as you are. A woman of strong passions and weak principles; hungry
for power and intent on pleasure; accomplished in deceit and reckless in
trampling on the nobler instincts of a gifted but neglected nature.
Ottila, I have no faith in you, feel no respect for the passion you
inspire, own no allegiance to the dominion you assert."

"You cannot throw it off; it is too late."

It was a rash defiance; she saw that as it passed her lips, and would
have given much to have recalled it. The stern gravity of Warwick's face
flashed into a stern indignation. His eye shone like steel, but his
voice dropped lower and his hand closed like a vice as he said, with the
air of one who cannot conceal but can control sudden wrath at a taunt to
which past weakness gives a double sting--

"It never is too late. If the priest stood ready, and I had sworn to
marry you within the hour, I would break the oath, and God would pardon
it, for no man has a right to embrace temptation and damn himself by a
life-long lie. You choose to make it a hard battle for me; you are
neither an honest friend nor a generous foe. No matter, I have fallen
into an ambuscade and must cut my way out as I can, and as I will, for
there is enough of this Devil's work in the world without our adding to
it."

"You cannot escape with honor, Adam."

"I cannot remain with honor. Do not try me too hardly, Ottila. I am not
patient, but I do desire to be just. I confess my weakness; will not
that satisfy you? Blazon your wrong as you esteem it; ask sympathy of
those who see not as I see; reproach, defy, lament. I will bear it all,
will make any other sacrifice as an atonement, but I will 'hold fast
mine integrity' and obey a higher law than your world recognizes, both
for your sake and my own."

She watched him as he spoke, and to herself confessed a slavery more
absolute than any he had known, for with a pang she felt that she had
indeed fallen into the snare she spread for him, and in this man, who
dared to own his weakness and her power, she had found a master. Was it
too late to keep him? She knew that soft appeals were vain, tears like
water on a rock, and with the skill that had subdued him once she
endeavored to retrieve her blunder by an equanimity which had more
effect than prayers or protestations. Warwick had read her well, had
shown her herself stripped of all disguises, and left her no defence but
tardy candor. She had the wisdom to see this, the wit to use it and
restore the shadow of the power whose substance she had lost. Leaving
her beauty to its silent work, she fixed on him eyes whose lustre was
quenched in unshed tears, and said with an earnest, humble voice--

"I, too, desire to be just. I will not reproach, defy, or lament, but
leave my fate to you. I am all you say, yet in your judgment remember
mercy, and believe that at twenty-five there is still hope for the noble
but neglected nature, still time to repair the faults of birth,
education, and orphanhood. You say, I have a daring will, a love of
conquest. Can I not will to overcome myself and do it? Can I not learn
to be the woman I have seemed? Love has worked greater miracles, may it
not work this? I have longed to be a truer creature than I am; have seen
my wasted gifts, felt my capacity for better things, and looked for help
from many sources, but never found it till you came. Do you wonder that
I tried to make it mine? Adam, you are a self-elected missionary to the
world's afflicted; you can look beyond external poverty and see the
indigence of souls. I am a pauper in your eyes; stretch out your hand
and save me from myself."

Straight through the one vulnerable point in the man's pride went this
appeal to the man's pity. Indignation could not turn it aside, contempt
blunt its edge, or wounded feeling lessen its force; and yet it failed:
for in Adam Warwick justice was stronger than mercy, reason than
impulse, head than heart. Experience was a teacher whom he trusted; he
had weighed this woman and found her wanting; truth was not in her; the
patient endeavor, the hard-won success so possible to many was hardly so
to her, and a union between them could bring no lasting good to either.
He knew this; had decided it in a calmer hour than the present, and by
that decision he would now abide proof against all attacks from without
or from within. More gently, but as inflexibly as before, he said--

"I do put out my hand and offer you the same bitter draught of
self-contempt that proved a tonic to my own weak will. I can help, pity,
and forgive you heartily, but I dare not marry you. The tie that binds
us is a passion of the senses, not a love of the soul. You lack the
moral sentiment that makes all gifts and graces subservient to the
virtues that render womanhood a thing to honor as well as love. I can
relinquish youth, beauty, worldly advantages, but I must reverence above
all others the woman whom I marry, and feel an affection that elevates
me by quickening all that is noblest and manliest in me. With you I
should be either a tyrant or a slave. I will be neither, but go solitary
all my life rather than rashly mortgage the freedom kept inviolate so
long, or let the impulse of an hour mar the worth of coming years."

Bent and broken by the unanswerable accusations of what seemed a
conscience in human shape, Ottila had sunk down before him with an
abandonment as native to her as the indomitable will which still refused
to relinquish hope even in despair.

"Go," she said, "I am not worthy of salvation. Yet it is hard, very
hard, to lose the one motive strong enough to save me, the one sincere
affection of my life."

Warwick had expected a tempestuous outbreak at his decision; this entire
submission touched him, for in the last words of her brief lament he
detected the accent of truth, and longed to answer it. He paused,
searching for the just thing to be done. Ottila, with hidden face,
watched while she wept, and waited hopefully for the relenting sign. In
silence the two, a modern Samson and Delilah, waged the old war that has
gone on ever since the strong locks were shorn and the temple fell; a
war which fills the world with unmated pairs and the long train of evils
arising from marriages made from impulse, and not principle. As usual,
the most generous was worsted. The silence pleaded well for Ottila, and
when Warwick spoke it was to say impetuously--

"You are right! It is hard that when two err one alone should suffer. I
should have been wise enough to see the danger, brave enough to fly from
it. I was not, and I owe you some reparation for the pain my folly
brings you. I offer you the best, because the hardest, sacrifice that I
can make. You say love can work miracles, and that yours is the
sincerest affection of your life; prove it. In three months you
conquered me; can you conquer yourself in twelve?"

"Try me!"

"I will. Nature takes a year for her harvests; I give you the same for
yours. If you will devote one half the energy and care to this work that
you devoted to that other,--will earnestly endeavor to cherish all that
is womanly and noble in yourself, and through desire for another's
respect earn your own,--I, too, will try to make myself a fitter mate
for any woman, and keep our troth unbroken for a year. Can I do more?"

"I dared not ask so much! I have not deserved it, but I will. Only love
me, Adam, and let me save myself through you."

Flushed and trembling with delight she rose, sure the trial was safely
passed, but found that for herself a new one had begun. Warwick offered
his hand.

"Farewell, then."

"Going? Surely you will stay and help me through my long probation?"

"No; if your desire has any worth you can work it out alone. We should
be hindrances to one another, and the labor be ill done."

"Where will you go? Not far, Adam."

"Straight to the North. This luxurious life enervates me; the pestilence
of slavery lurks in the air and infects me; I must build myself up anew
and find again the man I was."

"When must you go? Not soon."

"At once."

"I shall hear from you?"

"Not till I come."

"But I shall need encouragement, shall grow hungry for a word, a thought
from you. A year is very long to wait and work alone."

Eloquently she pleaded with voice and eyes and tender lips, but Warwick
did not yield.

"If the test be tried at all it must be fairly tried. We must stand
entirely apart and see what saving virtue lies in self-denial and
self-help."

"You will forget me, Adam. Some woman with a calmer heart than mine will
teach you to love as you desire to love, and when my work is done it
will be all in vain."

"Never in vain if it be well done, for such labor is its own reward.
Have no fear; one such lesson will last a lifetime. Do your part
heartily, and I will keep my pledge until the year is out."

"And then, what then?"

"If I see in you the progress both should desire, if this tie bears the
test of time and absence, and we find any basis for an abiding union,
then, Ottila, I will marry you."

"But if meanwhile that colder, calmer woman comes to you, what then?"

"Then I will not marry you."

"Ah, your promise is a man's vow, made only to be broken. I have no
faith in you."

"I think you may have. There will be no time for more folly; I must
repair the loss of many wasted days,--nay, not wasted if I have learned
this lesson well. Rest secure; it is impossible that I should love."

"You believed that three months ago and yet you are a lover now."

Ottila smiled an exultant smile, and Warwick acknowledged his proven
fallibility by a haughty flush and a frank amendment.

"Let it stand, then, that if I love again I am to wait in silence till
the year is out and you absolve me from my pledge. Does that satisfy
you?"

"It must. But you will come, whatever changes may befall you? Promise me
this."

"I promise it."

"Going so soon? Oh, wait a little!"

"When a duty is to be done, do it at once; delay is dangerous. Good
night."

"Give me some remembrance of you. I have nothing, for you are not a
generous lover."

"Generous in deeds, Ottila. I have given you a year's liberty, a dear
gift from one who values it more than life. Now I add this."

He drew her to him, kissed the red mouth and looked down upon her with a
glance that made his man's face as pitiful as any woman's as he let her
lean there happy in the hope given at such cost. For a moment nothing
stirred in the room but the soft whisper of the wind. For a moment
Warwick's austere life looked hard to him, love seemed sweet, submission
possible; for in all the world this was the only woman who clung to him,
and it was beautiful to cherish and be cherished after years of
solitude. A long sigh of desire and regret broke from him, and at the
sound a stealthy smile touched Ottila's lips as she whispered, with a
velvet cheek against his own--

"Love, you will stay?"

"I will not stay!"

And like one who cries out sharply within himself, "Get thee behind me!"
he broke away.

"Adam, come back to me! Come back!"

He looked over his shoulder, saw the fair woman in the heart of the warm
glow, heard her cry of love and longing, knew the life of luxurious ease
that waited for him, but steadily went out into the night, only
answering--

"In a year."




CHAPTER II.

WHIMS.


"Come, Sylvia, it is nine o'clock! Little slug-a-bed, don't you mean to
get up to-day?" said Miss Yule, bustling into her sister's room with the
wide-awake appearance of one to whom sleep was a necessary evil, to be
endured and gotten over as soon as possible.

"No, why should I?" And Sylvia turned her face away from the flood of
light that poured into the room as Prue put aside the curtains and flung
up the window.

"Why should you? What a question, unless you are ill; I was afraid you
would suffer for that long row yesterday, and my predictions seldom
fail."

"I am not suffering from any cause whatever, and your prediction does
fail this time; I am only tired of everybody and everything, and see
nothing worth getting up for; so I shall just stay here till I do.
Please put the curtain down and leave me in peace."

Prue had dropped her voice to the foreboding tone so irritating to
nervous persons whether sick or well, and Sylvia laid her arm across her
eyes with an impatient gesture as she spoke sharply.

"Nothing worth getting up for," cried Prue, like an aggravating echo.
"Why, child, there are a hundred pleasant things to do if you would only
think so. Now don't be dismal and mope away this lovely day. Get up and
try my plan; have a good breakfast, read the papers, and then work in
your garden before it grows too warm; that is wholesome exercise and
you've neglected it sadly of late."

"I don't wish any breakfast; I hate newspapers, they are so full of
lies; I'm tired of the garden, for nothing goes right this year; and I
detest taking exercise merely because it's wholesome. No, I'll not get
up for that."

"Then stay in the house and draw, read, or practise. Sit with Mark in
the studio; give Miss Hemming directions about your summer things, or go
into town about your bonnet. There is a matinée, try that; or make
calls, for you owe fifty at least. Now I'm sure there's employment
enough and amusement enough for any reasonable person."

Prue looked triumphant, but Sylvia was not a "reasonable person," and
went on in her former despondingly petulant strain.

"I'm tired of drawing; my head is a jumble of other people's ideas
already, and Herr Pedalsturm has put the piano out of tune. Mark always
makes a model of me if I go to him, and I don't like to see my eyes,
arms, or hair in all his pictures. Miss Hemming's gossip is worse than
fussing over new things that I don't need. Bonnets are my torment, and
matinées are wearisome, for people whisper and flirt till the music is
spoiled. Making calls is the worst of all; for what pleasure or profit
is there in running from place to place to tell the same polite fibs
over and over again, and listen to scandal that makes you pity or
despise your neighbors. I shall not get up for any of these things."

Prue leaned on the bedpost meditating with an anxious face till a
forlorn hope appeared which caused her to exclaim--

"Mark and I are going to see Geoffrey Moor, this morning, just home from
Switzerland, where his poor sister died, you know. You really ought to
come with us and welcome him, for though you can hardly remember him,
he's been so long away, still, as one of the family, it is a proper
compliment on your part. The drive will do you good, Geoffrey will be
glad to see you, it is a lovely old place, and as you never saw the
inside of the house you cannot complain that you are tired of that yet."

"Yes I can, for it will never seem as it has done, and I can no longer
go where I please now that a master's presence spoils its freedom and
solitude for me. I don't know him, and don't care to, though his name is
so familiar. New people always disappoint me, especially if I've heard
them praised ever since I was born. I shall not get up for any Geoffrey
Moor, so that bait fails."

Sylvia smiled involuntarily at her sister's defeat, but Prue fell back
upon her last resource in times like this. With a determined gesture she
plunged her hand into an abysmal pocket, and from a miscellaneous
collection of treasures selected a tiny vial, presenting it to Sylvia
with a half pleading, half authoritative look and tone.

"I'll leave you in peace if you'll only take a dose of chamomilla. It is
so soothing, that instead of tiring yourself with all manner of fancies,
you'll drop into a quiet sleep, and by noon be ready to get up like a
civilized being. Do take it, dear; just four sugar-plums, and I'm
satisfied."

Sylvia received the bottle with a docile expression; but the next minute
it flew out of the window, to be shivered on the walk below, while she
said, laughing like a wilful creature as she was--

"I have taken it in the only way I ever shall, and the sparrows can try
its soothing effects with me; so be satisfied."

"Very well. I shall send for Dr. Baum, for I'm convinced that you are
going to be ill. I shall say no more, but act as I think proper, because
it's like talking to the wind to reason with you in one of these
perverse fits."

As Prue turned away, Sylvia frowned and called after her--

"Spare yourself the trouble, for Dr. Baum will follow the chamomilla, if
you bring him here. What does he know about health, a fat German,
looking lager beer and talking sauer-kraut? Bring me _bona fide_
sugar-plums and I'll take them; but arsenic, mercury, and nightshade are
not to my taste."

"Would you feel insulted if I ask whether your breakfast is to be sent
up, or kept waiting till you choose to come down?"

Prue looked rigidly calm, but Sylvia knew that she felt hurt, and with
one of the sudden impulses which ruled her the frown melted to a smile,
as drawing her sister down she kissed her in her most loving manner.

"Dear old soul, I'll be good by-and-by, but now I'm tired and cross, so
let me keep out of every one's way and drowse myself into a cheerier
frame of mind. I want nothing but solitude, a draught of water, and a
kiss."

Prue was mollified at once, and after stirring fussily about for several
minutes gave her sister all she asked, and departed to the myriad small
cares that made her happiness. As the door closed, Sylvia sighed a long
sigh of relief, and folding her arms under her head drifted away into
the land of dreams, where ennui is unknown.

All the long summer morning she lay wrapt in sleeping and waking dreams,
forgetful of the world about her, till her brother played the Wedding
March upon her door on his way to lunch. The desire to avenge the sudden
downfall of a lovely castle in the air roused Sylvia, and sent her down
to skirmish with Mark. Before she could say a word, however, Prue began
to talk in a steady stream, for the good soul had a habit of jumbling
news, gossip, private opinions and public affairs into a colloquial
hodge-podge, that was often as trying to the intellects as the risibles
of her hearers.

"Sylvia, we had a charming call, and Geoffrey sent his love to you. I
asked him over to dinner, and we shall dine at six, because then my
father can be with us. I shall have to go to town first, for there are a
dozen things suffering for attention. You can't wear a round hat and
lawn jackets without a particle of set all summer. I want some things
for dinner,--and the carpet must be got. What a lovely one Geoffrey had
in the library! Then I must see if poor Mrs. Beck has had her leg
comfortably off, find out if Freddy Lennox is dead, and order home the
mosquito nettings. Now don't read all the afternoon, and be ready to
receive any one who may come if I should get belated."

The necessity of disposing of a suspended mouthful produced a lull, and
Sylvia seized the moment to ask in a careless way, intended to bring her
brother out upon his favorite topic,--

"How did you find your saint, Mark?"

"The same sunshiny soul as ever, though he has had enough to make him
old and grave before his time. He is just what we need in our
neighborhood, and particularly in our house, for we are a dismal set at
times, and he will do us all a world of good."

"What will become of me, with a pious, prosy, perfect creature eternally
haunting the house and exhorting me on the error of my ways!" cried
Sylvia.

"Don't disturb yourself; he is not likely to take much notice of you;
and it is not for an indolent, freakish midge to scoff at a man whom she
does not know, and couldn't appreciate if she did," was Mark's lofty
reply.

"I rather liked the appearance of the saint, however," said Sylvia, with
an expression of naughty malice, as she began her lunch.

"Why, where did you see him!" exclaimed her brother.

"I went over there yesterday to take a farewell run in the neglected
garden before he came. I knew he was expected, but not that he was here;
and when I saw the house open, I slipped in and peeped wherever I liked.
You are right, Prue; it is a lovely old place."

"Now I know you did something dreadfully unladylike and improper. Put me
out of suspense, I beg of you."

Prue's distressful face and Mark's surprise produced an inspiring effect
upon Sylvia, who continued, with an air of demure satisfaction--

"I strolled about, enjoying myself, till I got into the library, and
there I rummaged, for it was a charming place, and I was happy as only
those are who love books, and feel their influence in the silence of a
room whose finest ornaments they are."

"I hope Moor came in and found you trespassing."

"No, I went out and caught him playing. When I'd stayed as long as I
dared, and borrowed a very interesting old book--

"Sylvia! did you really take one without asking?" cried Prue, looking
almost as much alarmed as if she had stolen the spoons.

"Yes; why not? I can apologize prettily, and it will open the way for
more. I intend to browse over that library for the next six months."

"But it was such a liberty,--so rude, so--- dear, dear; and he as fond
and careful of his books as if they were his children! Well, I wash my
hands of it, and am prepared for anything now!"

Mark enjoyed Sylvia's pranks too much to reprove, so he only laughed
while one sister lamented and the other placidly went on--

"When I had put the book nicely in my pocket, Prue, I walked into the
garden. But before I'd picked a single flower, I heard little Tilly
laugh behind the hedge and some strange voice talking to her. So I
hopped upon a roller to see, and nearly tumbled off again; for there was
a man lying on the grass, with the gardener's children rioting over him.
Will was picking his pockets, and Tilly eating strawberries out of his
hat, often thrusting one into the mouth of her long neighbor, who always
smiled when the little hand came fumbling at his lips. You ought to have
seen the pretty picture, Mark."

"Did he see the interesting picture on your side of the wall?"

"No, I was just thinking what friendly eyes he had, listening to his
pleasant talk with the little folks, and watching how they nestled to
him as if he were a girl, when Tilly looked up and cried, 'I see
Silver!' So I ran away, expecting to have them all come racing after.
But no one appeared, and I only heard a laugh instead of the 'stop
thief' that I deserved."

"If I had time I should convince you of the impropriety of such wild
actions; as I haven't, I can only implore you never to do so again on
Geoffrey's premises," said Prue, rising as the carriage drove round.

"I can safely promise that," answered Sylvia, with a dismal shake of the
head, as she leaned listlessly from the window till her brother and
sister were gone.

At the appointed time Moor entered Mr. Yule's hospitably open door; but
no one came to meet him, and the house was as silent as if nothing human
inhabited it. He divined the cause of this, having met Prue and Mark
going downward some hours before, and saying to himself, "The boat is
late," he disturbed no one, but strolled into the drawing-rooms and
looked about him. Being one of those who seldom find time heavy on their
hands, he amused himself with observing what changes had been made
during his absence. His journey round the apartments was not a long one,
for, coming to an open window, he paused with an expression of mingled
wonder and amusement.

A pile of cushions, pulled from chair and sofa, lay before the long
window, looking very like a newly deserted nest. A warm-hued picture
lifted from the wall stood in a streak of sunshine; a half-cleared leaf
of fruit lay on a taboret, and beside it, with a red stain on its
title-page, appeared the stolen book. At sight of this Moor frowned,
caught up his desecrated darling and put it in his pocket. But as he
took another glance at the various indications of what had evidently
been a solitary revel very much after his own heart, he relented, laid
back the book, and, putting aside the curtain floating in the wind,
looked out into the garden, attracted thither by the sound of a spade.

A lad was at work near by, and wondering what new inmate the house had
gained, the neglected guest waited to catch a glimpse of the unknown
face. A slender boy, in a foreign-looking blouse of grey linen; a white
collar lay over a ribbon at the throat, stout half boots covered a trim
pair of feet, and a broad-brimmed hat flapped low on the forehead.
Whistling softly he dug with active gestures; and, having made the
necessary cavity, set a shrub, filled up the hole, trod it down
scientifically, and then fell back to survey the success of his labors.
But something was amiss, something had been forgotten, for suddenly up
came the shrub, and seizing a wheelbarrow that stood near by, away
rattled the boy round the corner out of sight. Moor smiled at his
impetuosity, and awaited his return with interest, suspecting from
appearances that this was some _protégé_ of Mark's employed as a model
as well as gardener's boy.

Presently up the path came the lad, with head down and steady pace,
trundling a barrow full of richer earth, surmounted by a watering-pot.
Never stopping for breath he fell to work again, enlarged the hole,
flung in the loam, poured in the water, reset the shrub, and when the
last stamp and pat were given performed a little dance of triumph about
it, at the close of which he pulled off his hat and began to fan his
heated face. The action caused the observer to start and look again,
thinking, as he recognized the energetic worker with a smile, "What a
changeful thing it is! haunting one's premises unseen, and stealing
one's books unsuspected; dreaming one half the day and masquerading the
other half. What will happen next? Let us see but not be seen, lest the
boy turn shy and run away before the pretty play is done!"

Holding the curtain between the window and himself, Moor peeped through
the semi-transparent screen, enjoying the little episode immensely.
Sylvia fanned and rested a few minutes, then went up and down among the
flowers, often pausing to break a dead leaf, to brush away some harmful
insect, or lift some struggling plant into the light; moving among them
as if akin to them, and cognizant of their sweet wants. If she had
seemed strong-armed and sturdy as a boy before, now she was tender
fingered as a woman, and went humming here and there like any
happy-hearted bee.

"Curious child!" thought Moor, watching the sunshine glitter on her
uncovered head, and listening to the air she left half sung. "I've a
great desire to step out and see how she will receive me. Not like any
other girl, I fancy."

But, before he could execute his design, the roll of a carriage was
heard in the avenue, and pausing an instant, with head erect like a
startled doe, Sylvia turned and vanished, dropping flowers as she ran.
Mr. Yule, accompanied by his son and daughter, came hurrying in with
greetings, explanations, and apologies, and in a moment the house was
full of a pleasant stir. Steps went up and down, voices echoed through
the rooms, savory odors burst forth from below, and doors swung in the
wind, as if the spell was broken and the sleeping palace had wakened
with a word.

Prue made a hasty toilet and harassed the cook to the verge of
spontaneous combustion, while Mark and his father devoted themselves to
their guest. Just as dinner was announced Sylvia came in, as calm and
cool as if wheelbarrows were myths and linen suits unknown. Moor was
welcomed with a quiet hand-shake, a grave salutation, and a look that
seemed to say, "Wait a little, I take no friends on trust."

All through dinner, though she sat as silent as a well-bred child, she
looked and listened with an expression of keen intelligence that
children do not wear, and sometimes smiled to herself, as if she saw or
heard something that pleased and interested her. When they rose from
table she followed Prue up stairs, quite forgetting the disarray in
which the drawing-room was left. The gentlemen took possession before
either sister returned, and Mark's annoyance found vent in a philippic
against oddities in general and Sylvia in particular; but his father and
friend sat in the cushionless chairs, and pronounced the scene amusingly
novel. Prue appeared in the midst of the laugh, and having discovered
other delinquencies above, her patience was exhausted, and her regrets
found no check in the presence of so old a friend as Moor.

"Something must be done about that child, father, for she is getting
entirely beyond my control. If I attempt to make her study she writes
poetry instead of her exercises, draws caricatures instead of sketching
properly, and bewilders her music teacher by asking questions about
Beethoven and Mendelssohn, as if they were personal friends of his. If I
beg her to take exercise, she rides like an Amazon all over the Island,
grubs in the garden as if for her living, or goes paddling about the bay
till I'm distracted lest the tide should carry her out to sea. She is so
wanting in moderation she gets ill, and when I give her proper medicines
she flings them out of the window, and threatens to send that worthy,
Dr. Baum, after them. Yet she must need something to set her right, for
she is either overflowing with unnatural spirits or melancholy enough
to break one's heart."

"What have you done with the little black sheep of my flock,--not
banished her, I hope?" said Mr. Yule, placidly, ignoring all complaints.

"She is in the garden, attending to some of her disagreeable pets, I
fancy. If you are going out there to smoke, please send her in, Mark; I
want her."

As Mr. Yule was evidently yearning for his after-dinner nap, and Mark
for his cigar, Moor followed his friend, and they stepped through the
window into the garden, now lovely with the fading glow of summer
sunset.

"You must know that this peculiar little sister of mine clings to some
of her childish beliefs and pleasures in spite of Prue's preaching and
my raillery," began Mark, after a refreshing whiff or two. "She is
overflowing with love and good will, but being too shy or too proud to
offer it to her fellow-creatures, she expends it upon the necessitous
inhabitants of earth, air, and water with the most charming
philanthropy. Her dependants are neither beautiful nor very interesting,
nor is she sentimentally enamored of them; but the more ugly and
desolate the creature, the more devoted is she. Look at her now; most
young ladies would have hysterics over any one of those pets of hers."

Moor looked, and thought the group a very pretty one, though a plump
toad sat at Sylvia's feet, a roly-poly caterpillar was walking up her
sleeve, a blind bird chirped on her shoulder, bees buzzed harmlessly
about her head, as if they mistook her for a flower, and in her hand a
little field mouse was breathing its short life away. Any tender-hearted
girl might have stood thus surrounded by helpless things that pity had
endeared, but few would have regarded them with an expression like that
which Sylvia wore. Figure, posture, and employment were so childlike in
their innocent unconsciousness, that the contrast was all the more
strongly marked between them and the sweet thoughtfulness that made her
face singularly attractive with the charm of dawning womanhood. Moor
spoke before Mark could dispose of his smoke.

"This is a great improvement upon the boudoir full of lap-dogs,
worsted-work and novels, Miss Sylvia. May I ask if you feel no
repugnance to some of your patients; or is your charity strong enough to
beautify them all?"

"I dislike many people, but few animals, because however ugly I pity
them, and whatever I pity I am sure to love. It may be silly, but I
think it does me good; and till I am wise enough to help my
fellow-beings, I try to do my duty to these humbler sufferers, and find
them both grateful and affectionate."

There was something very winning in the girl's manner as she spoke,
touching the little creature in her hand almost as tenderly as if it had
been a child. It showed the newcomer another phase of this many-sided
character; and while Sylvia related the histories of her pets at his
request, he was enjoying that finer history which every ingenuous soul
writes on its owner's countenance for gifted eyes to read and love. As
she paused, the little mouse lay stark and still in her gentle hand; and
though they smiled at themselves, both young men felt like boys again as
they helped her scoop a grave among the pansies, owning the beauty of
compassion, though she showed it to them in such a simple shape.

Then Mark delivered his message, and Sylvia went away to receive Prue's
lecture, with outward meekness, but such an absent mind that the words
of wisdom went by her like the wind.

"Now come and take our twilight stroll, while Mark keeps Mr. Moor in the
studio and Prue prepares another exhortation," said Sylvia, as her
father woke, and taking his arm, they paced along the wide piazza that
encircled the whole house.

"Will father do me a little favor?"

"That is all he lives for, dear."

"Then his life is a very successful one;" and the girl folded her other
hand over that already on his arm. Mr. Yule shook his head with a
regretful sigh, but asked benignly--

"What shall I do for my little daughter?"

"Forbid Mark to execute a plot with which he threatens me. He says he
will bring every gentleman he knows (and that is a great many) to the
house, and make it so agreeable that they will keep coming; for he
insists that I need amusement, and nothing will be so entertaining as a
lover or two. Please tell him not to, for I don't want any lovers yet."

"Why not?" asked her father, much amused at her twilight confidences.

"I'm afraid. Love is so cruel to some people, I feel as if it would be
to me, for I am always in extremes, and continually going wrong while
trying to go right. Love bewilders the wisest, and it would make me
quite blind or mad, I know; therefore I'd rather have nothing to do with
it, for a long, long while."

"Then Mark shall be forbidden to bring a single specimen. I very much
prefer to keep you as you are. And yet you may be happier to do as
others do; try it, if you like, my dear."

"But I can't do as others do; I've tried, and failed. Last winter, when
Prue made me go about, though people probably thought me a stupid little
thing, moping in corners, I was enjoying myself in my own way, and
making discoveries that have been very useful ever since. I know I'm
whimsical, and hard to please, and have no doubt the fault was in
myself, but I was disappointed in nearly every one I met, though I went
into what Prue calls 'our best society.' The girls seemed all made on
the same pattern; they all said, did, thought, and wore about the same
things, and knowing one was as good as knowing a dozen. Jessie Hope was
the only one I cared much for, and she is so pretty, she seems made to
be looked at and loved."

"How did you find the young gentlemen, Sylvia?"

"Still worse; for, though lively enough among themselves they never
found it worth their while to offer us any conversation but such as was
very like the champagne and ice-cream they brought us,--sparkling,
sweet, and unsubstantial. Almost all of them wore the superior air they
put on before women, an air that says as plainly as words, 'I may ask
you and I may not.' Now that is very exasperating to those who care no
more for them than so many grasshoppers, and I often longed to take the
conceit out of them by telling some of the criticisms passed upon them
by the amiable young ladies who looked as if waiting to say meekly,
'Yes, thank you.'"

"Don't excite yourself, my dear; it is all very lamentable and
laughable, but we must submit till the world learns better. There are
often excellent young persons among the 'grasshoppers,' and if you cared
to look you might find a pleasant friend here and there," said Mr.
Yule, leaning a little toward his son's view of the matter.

"No, I cannot even do that without being laughed at; for no sooner do I
mention the word friendship than people nod wisely and look as if they
said, 'Oh, yes, every one knows what that sort of thing amounts to.' I
should like a friend, father; some one beyond home, because he would be
newer; a man (old or young, I don't care which), because men go where
they like, see things with their own eyes, and have more to tell if they
choose. I want a person simple, wise, and entertaining; and I think I
should make a very grateful friend if such an one was kind enough to
like me."

"I think you would, and perhaps if you try to be more like others you
will find friends as they do, and so be happy, Sylvia."

"I cannot be like others, and their friendships would not satisfy me. I
don't try to be odd; I long to be quiet and satisfied, but I cannot; and
when I do what Prue calls wild things, it is not because I am
thoughtless or idle, but because I am trying to be good and happy. The
old ways fail, so I attempt new ones, hoping they will succeed; but they
don't, and I still go looking and longing for happiness, yet always
failing to find it, till sometimes I think I am a born disappointment."

"Perhaps love would bring the happiness, my dear?"

"I'm afraid not; but, however that may be, I shall never go running
about for a lover as half my mates do. When the true one comes I shall
know him, love him at once, and cling to him forever, no matter what may
happen. Till then I want a friend, and I will find one if I can. Don't
you believe there may be real and simple friendships between men and
women without falling into this everlasting sea of love?"

Mr. Yule was laughing quietly under cover of the darkness, but composed
himself to answer gravely--

"Yes, for some of the most beautiful and famous friendships have been
such, and I see no reason why there may not be again. Look about,
Sylvia, make yourself happy; and, whether you find friend or lover,
remember there is always the old Papa glad to do his best for you in
both capacities."

Sylvia's hand crept to her father's shoulder, and her voice was full of
daughterly affection, as she said--

"I'll have no lover but 'the old Papa' for a long while yet. But I will
look about, and if I am fortunate enough to find and good enough to keep
the person I want, I shall be very happy; for, father, I really think I
need a friend."

Here Mark called his sister in to sing to them, a demand that would have
been refused but for a promise to Prue to behave her best as an
atonement for past pranks. Stepping in she sat down and gave Moor
another surprise, as from her slender throat there came a voice whose
power and pathos made a tragedy of the simple ballad she was singing.

"Why did you choose that plaintive thing, all about love, despair, and
death? It quite breaks one's heart to hear it," said Prue, pausing in a
mental estimate of her morning's shopping.

"It came into my head, and so I sung it. Now I'll try another, for I am
bound to please you--if I can." And she broke out again with an airy
melody as jubilant as if a lark had mistaken moonlight for the dawn and
soared skyward, singing as it went. So blithe and beautiful were both
voice and song they caused a sigh of pleasure, a sensation of keen
delight in the listener, and seemed to gift the singer with an
unsuspected charm. As she ended Sylvia turned about, and seeing the
satisfaction of their guest in his face, prevented him from expressing
it in words by saying, in her frank way--

"Never mind the compliments. I know my voice is good, for that you may
thank nature; that it is well trained, for that praise Herr Pedalsturm;
and that you have heard it at all, you owe to my desire to atone for
certain trespasses of yesterday and to-day, because I seldom sing before
strangers."

"Allow me to offer my hearty thanks to Nature, Pedalsturm, and
Penitence, and also to hope that in time I may be regarded, not as a
stranger, but a neighbor and a friend."

Something in the gentle emphasis of the last word struck pleasantly on
the girl's ear, and seemed to answer an unspoken longing. She looked up
at him with a searching glance, appeared to find some 'assurance given
by looks,' and as a smile broke over her face she offered her hand as if
obeying a sudden impulse, and said, half to him, half to herself--

"I think I have found the friend already."




CHAPTER III.

AFLOAT.


Sylvia sat sewing in the sunshine with an expression on her face half
mirthful, half melancholy, as she looked backward to the girlhood just
ended, and forward to the womanhood just beginning, for on that
midsummer day, she was eighteen. Voices roused her from her reverie,
and, looking up, she saw her brother approaching with two friends, their
neighbor Geoffrey Moor and his guest Adam Warwick. Her first impulse was
to throw down her work and run to meet them, her second to remember her
new dignity and sit still, awaiting them with well-bred composure, quite
unconscious that the white figure among the vines added a picturesque
finish to the quiet summer scene.

They came up warm and merry, with a brisk row across the bay, and Sylvia
met them with a countenance that gave a heartier welcome than her words,
as she greeted the neighbor cordially, the stranger courteously, and
began to gather up her work when they seated themselves in the bamboo
chairs scattered about the wide piazza.

"You need not disturb yourself," said Mark, "we are only making this a
way-station, _en route_ for the studio. Can you tell me where my
knapsack is to be found? after one of Prue's stowages, nothing short of
a divining-rod will discover it, I'm afraid."

"I know where it is. Are you going away again so soon, Mark?"

"Only a two days' trip up the river with these mates of mine. No,
Sylvia, it can't be done."

"I did not say anything."

"Not in words, but you looked a whole volley of 'Can't I goes?' and I
answered it. No girl but you would dream of such a thing; you hate
picnics, and as this will be a long and rough one, don't you see how
absurd it would be for you to try it?"

"I don't quite see it, Mark, for this would not be an ordinary picnic;
it would be like a little romance to me, and I had rather have it than
any birthday present you could give me. We used to have such happy times
together before we were grown up, I don't like to be so separated now.
But if it is not best, I'm sorry that I even looked a wish."

Sylvia tried to keep both disappointment and desire out of her voice as
she spoke, though a most intense longing had taken possession of her
when she heard of a projected pleasure so entirely after her own heart.
But there was an unconscious reproach in her last words, a mute appeal in
the wistful eyes that looked across the glittering bay to the green
hills beyond. Now, Mark was both fond and proud of the young sister,
who, while he was studying art abroad, had studied nature at home, till
the wayward but winning child had bloomed into a most attractive girl.
He remembered her devotion to him, his late neglect of her, and longed
to make atonement. With elevated eyebrows and inquiring glances, he
turned from one friend to another. Moor nodded and smiled, Warwick
nodded, and sighed privately, and having taken the sense of the meeting
by a new style of vote, Mark suddenly announced--

"You can go if you like, Sylvia."

"What!" cried his sister, starting up with a characteristic impetuosity
that sent her basket tumbling down the steps, and crowned her dozing cat
with Prue's nightcap frills. "Do you mean it, Mark? Wouldn't it spoil
your pleasure, Mr. Moor? Shouldn't I be a trouble, Mr. Warwick? Tell me
frankly, for if I can go I shall be happier than I can express."

The gentlemen smiled at her eagerness, but as they saw the altered face
she turned toward them, each felt already repaid for any loss of freedom
they might experience hereafter, and gave unanimous consent. Upon
receipt of which Sylvia felt inclined to dance about the three and bless
them audibly, but restrained herself, and beamed upon them in a state of
wordless gratitude pleasant to behold. Having given a rash consent, Mark
now thought best to offer a few obstacles to enhance its value and try
his sister's mettle.

"Don't ascend into the air like a young balloon, child, but hear the
conditions upon which you go, for if you fail to work three miracles it
is all over with you. Firstly, the consent of the higher powers, for
father will dread all sorts of dangers--you are such a freakish
creature,--and Prue will be scandalized because trips like this are not the
fashion for young ladies."

"Consider that point settled and go on to the next," said Sylvia, who,
having ruled the house ever since she was born, had no fears of success
with either father or sister.

"Secondly, you must do yourself up in as compact a parcel as possible;
for though you little women are very ornamental on land, you are not
very convenient for transportation by water. Cambric gowns and French
slippers are highly appropriate and agreeable at the present moment,
but must be sacrificed to the stern necessities of the case. You must
make a dowdy of yourself in some usefully short, scant, dingy costume,
which will try the nerves of all beholders, and triumphantly prove that
women were never meant for such excursions."

"Wait five minutes and I'll triumphantly prove to the contrary,"
answered Sylvia, as she ran into the house.

Her five minutes was sufficiently elastic to cover fifteen, for she was
ravaging her wardrobe to effect her purpose and convince her brother,
whose artistic tastes she consulted, with a skill that did her good
service in the end. Rapidly assuming a gray gown, with a jaunty jacket
of the same, she kilted the skirt over one of green, the pedestrian
length of which displayed boots of uncompromising thickness. Over her
shoulder, by a broad ribbon, she slung a prettily wrought pouch, and
ornamented her hat pilgrim-wise with a cockle shell. Then taking her
brother's alpen-stock she crept down, and standing in the door-way
presented a little figure all in gray and green, like the earth she was
going to wander over, and a face that blushed and smiled and shone as
she asked demurely--

"Please, Mark, am I picturesque and convenient enough to go?"

He wheeled about and stared approvingly, forgetting cause in effect till
Warwick began to laugh like a merry bass viol, and Moor joined him,
saying--

"Come, Mark, own that you are conquered, and let us turn our commonplace
voyage into a pleasure pilgrimage, with a lively lady to keep us knights
and gentlemen wherever we are."

"I say no more; only remember, Sylvia, if you get burnt, drowned, or
blown away, I'm not responsible for the damage, and shall have the
satisfaction of saying, 'There, I told you so.'"

"That satisfaction may be mine when I come home quite safe and well,"
replied Sylvia, serenely. "Now for the last condition."

Warwick looked with interest from the sister to the brother; for, being
a solitary man, domestic scenes and relations possessed the charm of
novelty to him.

"Thirdly, you are not to carry a boat-load of luggage, cloaks, pillows,
silver forks, or a dozen napkins, but are to fare as we fare, sleeping
in hammocks, barns, or on the bare ground, without shrieking at bats or
bewailing the want of mosquito netting; eating when, where, and what is
most convenient, and facing all kinds of weather regardless of
complexion, dishevelment, and fatigue. If you can promise all this, be
here loaded and ready to go off at six o'clock to-morrow morning."

After which cheerful picture of the joys to come, Mark marched away to
his studio, taking his friends with him.

Sylvia worked the three miracles, and at half past five, A. M. was
discovered sitting on the piazza, with her hammock rolled into a twine
sausage at her feet, her hat firmly tied on, her scrip packed, and her
staff in her hand. "Waiting till called for," she said, as her brother
passed her, late and yawning as usual. As the clock struck six the
carriage drove round, and Moor and Warwick came up the avenue in
nautical array. Then arose a delightful clamor of voices, slamming of
doors, hurrying of feet and frequent peals of laughter; for every one
was in holiday spirits, and the morning seemed made for pleasuring.

Mr. Yule regarded the voyagers with an aspect as benign as the summer
sky overhead; Prue ran to and fro pouring forth a stream of counsels,
warnings, and predictions; men and maids gathered on the lawn or hung
out of upper windows; and even old Hecate, the cat, was seen chasing
imaginary rats and mice in the grass till her yellow eyes glared with
excitement. "All in," was announced at last, and as the carriage rolled
away its occupants looked at one another with faces of blithe
satisfaction that their pilgrimage was so auspiciously begun.

A mile or more up the river the large, newly-painted boat awaited them.
The embarkation was a speedy one, for the cargo was soon stowed in
lockers and under seats, Sylvia forwarded to her place in the bow; Mark,
as commander of the craft, took the helm; Moor and Warwick, as crew, sat
waiting orders; and Hugh, the coachman, stood ready to push off at word
of command. Presently it came, a strong hand sent them rustling through
the flags, down dropped the uplifted oars, and with a farewell cheer
from a group upon the shore the Kelpie glided out into the stream.

Sylvia, too full of genuine content to talk, sat listening to the
musical dip of well-pulled oars, watching the green banks on either
side, dabbling her hands in the eddies as they rippled by, and singing
to the wind, as cheerful and serene as the river that gave her back a
smiling image of herself. What her companions talked of she neither
heard nor cared to know, for she was looking at the great picture-book
that always lies ready for the turning of the youngest or the oldest
hands; was receiving the welcome of the playmates she best loved, and
was silently yielding herself to the power which works all wonders with
its benignant magic. Hour after hour she journeyed along that fluent
road. Under bridges where early fishers lifted up their lines to let
them through; past gardens tilled by unskilful townsmen who harvested an
hour of strength to pay the daily tax the city levied on them; past
honeymoon cottages where young wives walked with young husbands in the
dew, or great houses shut against the morning. Lovers came floating down
the stream with masterless rudder and trailing oars. College race-boats
shot by with modern Greek choruses in full blast and the frankest
criticisms from their scientific crews. Fathers went rowing to and fro
with argosies of pretty children, who gave them gay good morrows.
Sometimes they met fanciful nutshells manned by merry girls, who made
for shore at sight of them with most erratic movements and novel
commands included in their Art of Navigation. Now and then some poet or
philosopher went musing by, fishing for facts or fictions, where other
men catch pickerel or perch.

All manner of sights and sounds greeted Sylvia, and she felt as if she
were watching a Panorama painted in water colors by an artist who had
breathed into his work the breath of life and given each figure power to
play its part. Never had human faces looked so lovely to her eye, for
morning beautified the plainest with its ruddy kiss; never had human
voices sounded so musical to her ear, for daily cares had not yet
brought discord to the instruments tuned by sleep and touched by
sunshine into pleasant sound; never had the whole race seemed so near
and dear to her, for she was unconsciously pledging all she met in that
genuine Elixir Vitæ which sets the coldest blood aglow and makes the
whole world kin; never had she felt so truly her happiest self, for of
all the costlier pleasures she had known not one had been so congenial
as this, as she rippled farther and farther up the stream and seemed to
float into a world whose airs brought only health and peace. Her
comrades wisely left her to her thoughts, a smiling Silence for their
figure-head, and none among them but found the day fairer and felt
himself fitter to enjoy it for the innocent companionship of maidenhood
and a happy heart.

At noon they dropped anchor under a wide-spreading oak that stood on the
river's edge, a green tent for wanderers like themselves; there they ate
their first meal spread among white clovers, with a pair of squirrels
staring at them as curiously as human spectators ever watched royalty at
dinner, while several meek cows courteously left their guests the shade
and went away to dine at a side-table spread in the sun. They spent an
hour or two talking or drowsing luxuriously on the grass; then the
springing up of a fresh breeze roused them all, and weighing anchor they
set sail for another port.

Now Sylvia saw new pictures, for, leaving all traces of the city behind
them, they went swiftly countryward. Sometimes by hayfields, each an
idyl in itself, with white-sleeved mowers all arow; the pleasant sound
of whetted scythes; great loads rumbling up lanes, with brown-faced
children shouting atop; rosy girls raising fragrant winrows or bringing
water for thirsty sweethearts leaning on their rakes. Often they saw
ancient farm-houses with mossy roofs, and long well-sweeps suggestive of
fresh draughts, and the drip of brimming pitchers; orchards and
cornfields rustling on either hand, and grandmotherly caps at the narrow
windows, or stout matrons tending babies in the doorway as they watched
smaller selves playing keep house under the "laylocks" by the wall.
Villages, like white flocks, slept on the hillsides; martinbox
schoolhouses appeared here and there, astir with busy voices, alive
with wistful eyes; and more than once they came upon little mermen
bathing, who dived with sudden splashes, like a squad of turtles
tumbling off a sunny rock.

Then they went floating under vernal arches, where a murmurous rustle
seemed to whisper, "Stay!" along shadowless sweeps, where the blue
turned to gold and dazzled with its unsteady shimmer; passed islands so
full of birds they seemed green cages floating in the sun, or doubled
capes that opened long vistas of light and shade, through which they
sailed into the pleasant land where summer reigned supreme. To Sylvia it
seemed as if the inhabitants of these solitudes had flocked down to the
shore to greet her as she came. Fleets of lilies unfurled their sails on
either hand, and cardinal flowers waved their scarlet flags among the
green. The sagittaria lifted its blue spears from arrowy leaves; wild
roses smiled at her with blooming faces; meadow lilies rang their
flame-colored bells; and clematis and ivy hung garlands everywhere, as
if hers were a floral progress, and each came to do her honor.

Her neighbors kept up a flow of conversation as steady as the river's,
and Sylvia listened now. Insensibly the changeful scenes before them
recalled others, and in the friendly atmosphere that surrounded them
these reminiscences found free expression. Each of the three had been
fortunate in seeing much of foreign life; each had seen a different
phase of it, and all were young enough to be still enthusiastic,
accomplished enough to serve up their recollections with taste and
skill, and give Sylvia glimpses of the world through spectacles
sufficiently rose-colored to lend it the warmth which even Truth allows
to her sister Romance.

The wind served them till sunset, then the sail was lowered and the
rowers took to their oars. Sylvia demanded her turn, and wrestled with
one big oar while Warwick sat behind and did the work. Having blistered
her hands and given herself as fine a color as any on her brother's
palette, she professed herself satisfied, and went back to her seat to
watch the evening-red transfigure earth and sky, making the river and
its banks a more royal pageant than splendor-loving Elizabeth ever saw
along the Thames.

Anxious to reach a certain point, they rowed on into the twilight,
growing stiller and stiller as the deepening hush seemed to hint that
Nature was at her prayers. Slowly the Kelpie floated along the shadowy
way, and as the shores grew dim, the river dark with leaning hemlocks or
an overhanging cliff, Sylvia felt as if she were making the last voyage
across that fathomless stream where a pale boatman plies and many go
lamenting.

The long silence was broken first by Moor's voice, saying--

"Adam, sing."

If the influences of the hour had calmed Mark, touched Sylvia, and made
Moor long for music, they had also softened Warwick. Leaning on his oar
he lent the music of a mellow voice to the words of a German Volkslied,
and launched a fleet of echoes such as any tuneful vintager might have
sent floating down the Rhine. Sylvia was no weeper, but as she listened,
all the day's happiness which had been pent up in her heart found vent
in sudden tears, that streamed down noiseless and refreshing as a warm
south rain. Why they came she could not tell, for neither song nor
singer possessed the power to win so rare a tribute, and at another
time, she would have restrained all visible expression of this
indefinable yet sweet emotion. Mark and Moor had joined in the burden of
the song, and when that was done took up another; but Sylvia only sat
and let her tears flow while they would, singing at heart, though her
eyes were full and her cheeks wet faster than the wind could kiss them
dry.

After frequent peerings and tackings here and there, Mark at last
discovered the haven he desired, and with much rattling of oars,
clanking of chains, and splashing of impetuous boots, a landing was
effected, and Sylvia found herself standing on a green bank with her
hammock in her arms and much wonderment in her mind whether the
nocturnal experiences in store for her would prove as agreeable as the
daylight ones had been. Mark and Moor unloaded the boat and prospected
for an eligible sleeping-place. Warwick, being an old campaigner, set
about building a fire, and the girl began her sylvan housekeeping. The
scene rapidly brightened into light and color as the blaze sprang up,
showing the little kettle slung gipsywise on forked sticks, and the
supper prettily set forth in a leafy table-service on a smooth, flat
stone. Soon four pairs of wet feet surrounded the fire; an agreeable
oblivion of _meum_ and _tuum_ concerning plates, knives, and cups did
away with etiquette, and every one was in a comfortable state of
weariness, which rendered the thought of bed so pleasant that they
deferred their enjoyment of the reality, as children keep the best bite
till the last.

"What are you thinking of here all by yourself?" asked Mark, coming to
lounge on his sister's plaid, which she had spread somewhat apart from
the others, and where she sat watching the group before her with a
dreamy aspect.

"I was watching your two friends. See what a fine study they make with
the red flicker of the fire on their faces and the background of dark
pines behind them."

They did make a fine study, for both were goodly men yet utterly unlike,
one being of the heroic type, the other of the poetic. Warwick was a
head taller than his tall friend, broad-shouldered, strong-limbed, and
bronzed by wind and weather. A massive head, covered with rings of ruddy
brown hair, gray eyes, that seemed to pierce through all disguises, an
eminent nose, and a beard like one of Mark's stout saints. Power,
intellect, and courage were stamped on face and figure, making him the
manliest man that Sylvia had ever seen. He leaned against the stone, yet
nothing could have been less reposeful than his attitude, for the native
unrest of the man asserted itself in spite of weariness or any soothing
influence of time or place. Moor was much slighter, and betrayed in
every gesture the unconscious grace of the gentleman born. A most
attractive face, with its broad brow, serene eyes, and the cordial smile
about the mouth. A sweet, strong nature, one would say, which, having
used life well had learned the secret of a true success. Inward
tranquillity seemed his, and it was plain to see that no wave of sound,
no wandering breath, no glimpse of color, no hint of night or nature was
without its charm and its significance for him.

"Tell me about that man, Mark. I have heard you speak of him since you
came home, but supposing he was some blowzy artist, I never cared to ask
about him. Now I've seen him, I want to know more," said Sylvia, as her
brother laid himself down after an approving glance at the group
opposite.

"I met him in Munich, when I first went abroad, and since then we have
often come upon each other in our wanderings. He never writes, but goes
and comes intent upon his own affairs; yet one never can forget him, and
is always glad to feel the grip of his hand again, it seems to put such
life and courage into one."

"Is he good?" asked Sylvia, womanlike, beginning with the morals.

"Violently virtuous. He is a masterful soul, bent on living out his
beliefs and aspirations at any cost. Much given to denunciation of
wrong-doing everywhere, and eager to execute justice upon all offenders
high or low. Yet he possesses great nobility of character, great
audacity of mind, and leads a life of the sternest integrity."

"Is he rich?"

"In his own eyes, because he makes his wants so few."

"Is he married?"

"No; he has no family, and not many friends, for he says what he means
in the bluntest English, and few stand the test his sincerity applies."

"What does he do in the world?"

"Studies it, as we do books; dives into everything, analyzes character,
and builds up his own with materials which will last. If that's not
genius it's something better."

"Then he will do much good and be famous, won't he?"

"Great good to many, but never will be famous, I fear. He is too fierce
an iconoclast to suit the old party, too individual a reformer to join
the new, and being born a century too soon must bide his time, or play
out his part before stage and audience are ready for him."

"Is he learned?"

"Very, in uncommon sorts of wisdom; left college after a year of it,
because it could not give him what he wanted, and taking the world for
his university, life for his tutor, says he shall not graduate till his
term ends with days."

"I know I shall like him very much."

"I hope so, for my sake. He is a grand man in the rough, and an
excellent tonic for those who have courage to try him."

Sylvia was silent, thinking over all she had just heard and finding much
to interest her in it, because, to her imaginative and enthusiastic
nature, there was something irresistibly attractive in the strong,
solitary, self-reliant man. Mark watched her for a moment, then asked
with lazy curiosity--

"How do you like this other friend of mine?"

"He went away when I was such a child that since he came back I've had
to begin again; but if I like him at the end of another month as much as
I do now, I shall try to make your friend my friend, because I need such
an one very much."

Mark laughed at the innocent frankness of his sister's speech but took
it as she meant it, and answered soberly--

"Better leave Platonics till you're forty. Though Moor is twelve years
older than yourself he is a young man still, and you are grown a very
captivating little woman."

Sylvia looked both scornful and indignant.

"You need have no fears. There is such a thing as true and simple
friendship between men and women, and if I can find no one of my own sex
who can give me the help and happiness I want, why may I not look for it
anywhere and accept it in whatever shape it comes?"

"You may, my dear, and I'll lend a hand with all my heart, but you must
be willing to take the consequences in whatever shape _they_ come," said
Mark, not ill pleased with the prospect his fancy conjured up.

"I will," replied Sylvia loftily, and fate took her at her word.

Presently some one suggested bed, and the proposition was unanimously
accepted.

"Where are you going to hang me?" asked Sylvia, as she laid hold of her
hammock and looked about her with nearly as much interest as if her
suspension was to be of the perpendicular order.

"You are not to be swung up in a tree to-night but laid like a ghost,
and requested not to walk till morning. There is an unused barn close
by, so we shall have a roof over us for one night longer," answered
Mark, playing chamberlain while the others remained to quench the fire
and secure the larder.

An early moon lighted Sylvia to bed, and when shown her half the barn,
which, as she was a Marine, was very properly the bay, Mark explained,
she scouted the idea of being nervous or timid in such rude quarters,
made herself a cosy nest and bade her brother a merry good night.

More weary than she would confess, Sylvia fell asleep at once, despite
the novelty of her situation and the noises that fill a summer night
with fitful rustlings and tones. How long she slept she did not know,
but woke suddenly and sat erect with that curious thrill which sometimes
startles one out of deepest slumber, and is often the forerunner of some
dread or danger. She felt this hot tingle through blood and nerves, and
stared about her thinking of fire. But everything was dark and still,
and after waiting a few moments she decided that her nest had been too
warm, for her temples throbbed and her cheeks were feverish with the
close air of the barn half filled with new-made hay.

Creeping up a fragrant slope she spread her plaid again and lay down
where a cool breath flowed through wide chinks in the wall. Sleep was
slowly returning when the rustle of footsteps scared it quite away and
set her heart beating fast, for they came toward the new couch she had
chosen. Holding her breath she listened. The quiet tread drew nearer and
nearer till it paused within a yard of her, then some one seemed to
throw themselves down, sigh heavily a few times and grow still as if
falling asleep.

"It is Mark," thought Sylvia, and whispered his name, but no one
answered, and from the other corner of the barn she heard her brother
muttering in his sleep. Who was it, then? Mark had said there were no
cattle near, she was sure neither of her comrades had left their
bivouac, for there was her brother talking as usual in his dreams; some
one seemed restless and turned often with decided motion, that was
Warwick, she thought, while the quietest sleeper of the three betrayed
his presence by laughing once with the low-toned merriment she
recognized as Moor's. These discoveries left her a prey to visions of
grimy strollers, maudlin farm-servants, and infectious emigrants in
dismal array. A strong desire to cry out possessed her for a moment, but
was checked; for with all her sensitiveness Sylvia had much common
sense, and that spirit which hates to be conquered even by a natural
fear. She remembered her scornful repudiation of the charge of timidity,
and the endless jokes she would have to undergo if her mysterious
neighbor should prove some harmless wanderer or an imaginary terror of
her own, so she held her peace, thinking valiantly as the drops gathered
on her forehead, and every sense grew painfully alert--

"I'll not call if my hair turns gray with fright, and I find myself an
idiot to-morrow. I told them to try me, and I won't be found wanting at
the first alarm. I'll be still, if the thing does not touch me till
dawn, when I shall know how to act at once, and so save myself from
ridicule at the cost of a wakeful night."

Holding fast to this resolve Sylvia lay motionless; listening to the
cricket's chirp without, and taking uncomfortable notes of the state of
things within, for the new comer stirred heavily, sighed long and
deeply, and seemed to wake often, like one too sad or weary to rest. She
would have been wise to have screamed her scream and had the rout over,
for she tormented herself with the ingenuity of a lively fancy, and
suffered more from her own terrors than at the discovery of a dozen
vampires. Every tale of _diablerie_ she had ever heard came most
inopportunely to haunt her now, and though she felt their folly she
could not free herself from their dominion. She wondered till she could
wonder no longer what the morning would show her. She tried to calculate
in how many springs she could reach and fly over the low partition which
separated her from her sleeping body-guard. She wished with all her
heart that she had stayed in her nest which was nearer the door, and
watched for dawn with eyes that ached to see the light.

In the midst of these distressful sensations the far-off crow of some
vigilant chanticleer assured her that the short summer night was wearing
away and relief was at hand. This comfortable conviction had so good an
effect that she lapsed into what seemed a moment's oblivion, but was in
fact an hour's restless sleep, for when her eyes unclosed again the
first red streaks were visible in the east, and a dim light found its
way into the barn through the great door which had been left ajar for
air. An instant Sylvia lay collecting herself, then rose on her arm,
looked resolutely behind her, stared with round eyes a moment, and
dropped down again, laughing with a merriment, which coming on the heels
of her long alarm was rather hysterical. All she saw was a little
soft-eyed Alderney, which lifted its stag-like head, and regarded her
with a confiding aspect that won her pardon for its innocent offence.

Through the relief of both mind and body which she experienced in no
small degree, the first thought that came was a thankful "what a mercy I
didn't call Mark, for I should never have heard the last of this;" and
having fought her fears alone she enjoyed her success alone, and
girl-like resolved to say nothing of her first night's adventures.
Gathering herself up she crept nearer and caressed her late terror,
which stretched its neck toward her with a comfortable sound, and
munched her shawl like a cosset lamb. But before this new friendship was
many minutes old, Sylvia's heavy lids fell together, her head dropped
lower and lower, her hand lay still on the dappled neck, and with a long
sigh of weariness she dropped back upon the hay, leaving little Alderney
to watch over her much more tranquilly than she had watched over it.




CHAPTER IV.

THROUGH FLOOD AND FIELD AND FIRE.


Very early were they afloat again, and as they glided up the stream
Sylvia watched the earth's awakening, seeing in it what her own should
be. The sun was not yet visible above the hills, but the sky was ready
for his coming, with the soft flush of color dawn gives only to her
royal lover. Birds were chanting matins as if all the jubilance of their
short lives must be poured out at once. Flowers stirred and brightened
like children after sleep. A balmy wind came whispering from the wood,
bringing the aroma of pines, the cool breath of damp nooks, the
healthful kiss that leaves a glow behind. Light mists floated down the
river like departing visions that had haunted it by night, and every
ripple breaking on the shore seemed to sing a musical good morrow.

Sylvia could not conceal the weariness her long vigil left behind; and
after betraying herself by a drowsy lurch that nearly took her
overboard, she made herself comfortable, and slept till the grating of
the keel on a pebbly shore woke her to find a new harbor reached under
the lee of a cliff, whose deep shadow was very grateful after the glare
of noon upon the water.

"How do you intend to dispose of yourself this afternoon, Adam?" asked
Mark, when dinner was over and his sister busy feeding the birds.

"In this way," answered Warwick, producing a book and settling himself
in a commodious cranny of the rock.

"Moor and I want to climb the cliff and sketch the view; but it is too
rough a road for Sylvia. Would you mind mounting guard for an hour or
two? Read away, and leave her to amuse herself; only pray don't let her
get into any mischief by way of enjoying her liberty, for she fears
nothing and is fond of experiments."

"I'll do my best," replied Warwick, with an air of resignation.

Having slung the hammock and seen Sylvia safely into it, the climbers
departed, leaving her to enjoy the luxury of motion. For half an hour
she swung idly, looking up into the green pavilion overhead, where many
insect families were busy with their small joys and cares, or out over
the still landscape basking in the warmth of a cloudless afternoon. Then
she opened a book Mark had brought for his own amusement, and began to
read as intently as her companion, who leaned against the boulder slowly
turning his pages, with leafy shadows flickering over his uncovered head
and touching it with alternate sun and shade. The book proved
interesting, and Sylvia was rapidly skimming into the heart of the
story, when an unguarded motion caused her swing to slope perilously to
one side, and in saving herself she lost her book. This produced a
predicament, for being helped into a hammock and getting out alone are
two very different things. She eyed the distance from her nest to the
ground, and fancied it had been made unusually great to keep her
stationary. She held fast with one hand and stretched downward with the
other, but the book insolently flirted its leaves just out of reach.
She took a survey of Warwick; he had not perceived her plight, and she
felt an unwonted reluctance to call for help, because he did not look
like one used to come and go at a woman's bidding. After several
fruitless essays she decided to hazard an ungraceful descent; and,
gathering herself up, was about to launch boldly out, when Warwick
cried, "Stop!" in a tone that nearly produced the catastrophe he wished
to avert. Sylvia subsided, and coming up he lifted the book, glanced at
the title, then keenly at the reader.

"Do you like this?"

"So far very much."

"Are you allowed to read what you choose?"

"Yes, sir. That is Mark's choice, however; I brought no book."

"I advise you to skim it into the river; it is not a book for you."

Sylvia caught a glimpse of the one he had been reading himself, and
impelled by a sudden impulse to see what would come of it, she answered
with a look as keen as his own--

"You disapprove of my book; would you recommend yours?"

"In this case, yes; for in one you will find much falsehood in purple
and fine linen, in the other some truth in fig-leaves. Take your
choice."

He offered both; but Sylvia took refuge in civility.

"I thank you, I'll have neither; but if you will please steady the
hammock, I will try to find some more harmless amusement for myself."

He obeyed with one of the humorous expressions which often passed over
his face. Sylvia descended as gracefully as circumstances permitted, and
went roving up and down the cliffs. Warwick resumed his seat and the
"barbaric yawp," but seemed to find Truth in demi-toilet less
interesting than Youth in a gray gown and round hat, for which his taste
is to be commended. The girl had small scope for amusement, and when she
had gathered moss for pillows, laid out a white fungus to dry for a
future pin-cushion, harvested penny-royal in little sheaves tied with
grass-blades, watched a battle between black ants and red, and learned
the landscape by heart; she was at the end of her resources, and leaning
on a stone surveyed earth and sky with a somewhat despondent air.

"You would like something to do, I think."

"Yes, sir; for being rather new to this sort of life, I have not yet
learned how to dispose of my time."

"I see that, and having deprived you of one employment will try to
replace it by another."

Warwick rose, and going to the single birch that glimmered among the
pines like a delicate spirit of the wood, he presently returned with
strips of silvery bark.

"You were wishing for baskets to hold your spoils, yesterday; shall we
make some now?" he asked.

"How stupid in me not to think of that! Yes, thank you, I should like it
very much;" and producing her housewife, Sylvia fell to work with a
brightening face.

Warwick sat a little below her on the rock, shaping his basket in
perfect silence. This did not suit Sylvia, for feeling lively and
loquacious she wanted conversation to occupy her thoughts as pleasantly
as the birch rolls were occupying her hands, and there sat a person who,
she was sure, could do it perfectly if he chose. She reconnoitered with
covert glances, made sundry overtures, and sent out envoys in the shape
of scissors, needles, and thread. But no answering glance met hers; her
remarks received the briefest replies, and her offers of assistance were
declined with an absent "No, thank you." Then she grew indignant at this
seeming neglect, and thought, as she sat frowning over her work, behind
his back--

"He treats me like a child,--very well, then, I'll behave like one, and
beset him with questions till he is driven to speak; for he can talk, he
ought to talk, he shall talk."

"Mr. Warwick, do you like children?" she began, with a determined
aspect.

"Better than men or women."

"Do you enjoy amusing them?"

"Exceedingly, when in the humor."

"Are you in the humor now?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Then why don't you amuse me?"

"Because you are not a child."

"I fancied you thought me one."

"If I had, I probably should have put you on my knee, and told you fairy
tales, or cut dolls for you out of this bark, instead of sitting
respectfully silent and making a basket for your stores."

There was a curious smile about Warwick's mouth as he spoke, and Sylvia
was rather abashed by her first exploit. But there was a pleasure in the
daring, and choosing another topic she tried again.

"Mark was telling me last night about the great college you had chosen;
I thought it must be a very original and interesting way to educate
one's self, and wanted very much to know what you had been studying
lately. May I ask you now?"

"Men and women," was the brief answer.

"Have you got your lesson, sir?"

"A part of it very thoroughly, I believe."

"Would you think me rude if I asked which part?"

"The latter."

"And what conclusions do you arrive at concerning this branch of the
subject?" asked Sylvia, smiling and interested.

"That it is both dangerous and unsatisfactory."

He spoke so gravely, looked so stern, that Sylvia obeyed a warning
instinct and sat silent till she had completed a canoe-shaped basket,
the useful size of which produced a sudden longing to fill it. Her eye
had already spied a knoll across the river covered with vines, and so
suggestive of berries that she now found it impossible to resist the
desire for an exploring trip in that direction. The boat was too large
for her to manage alone, but an enterprising spirit had taken possession
of her, and having made one voyage of discovery with small success she
resolved to try again, hoping a second in another direction might prove
more fruitful.

"Is your basket done, sir?" she asked.

"Yes; will you have it?"

"Why, you have made it as an Indian would, using grass instead of
thread. It is much more complete than mine, for the green stitches
ornament the white bark, but the black ones disfigure it. I should know
a man made your basket and a woman mine."

"Because one is ugly and strong, the other graceful but unable to stand
alone?" asked Warwick, rising, with a gesture that sent the silvery
shreds flying away on the wind.

"One holds as much as the other, however; and I fancy the woman would
fill hers soonest if she had the wherewithal to do it. Do you know there
are berries on that hillside opposite?"

"I see vines, but consider fruit doubtful, for boys and birds are
thicker than blackberries."

"I've a firm conviction that they have left some for us; and as Mark
says you like frankness, I think I shall venture to ask you to row me
over and help me fill the baskets on the other side."

Sylvia looked up at him with a merry mixture of doubt and daring in her
face, and offered him his hat.

"Very good, I will," said Warwick, leading the way to the boat with an
alacrity which proved how much pleasanter to him was action than repose.

There was no dry landing-place just opposite, and as he rowed higher,
Adam fixed his eyes on Sylvia with a look peculiar to himself, a gaze
more keen than soft, which seemed to search one through and through with
its rapid discernment. He saw a face full of contradictions,--youthful,
maidenly, and intelligent, yet touched with the unconscious melancholy
which is born of disappointment and desire. The mouth was sweet and
tender as a woman's should be, the brow spirited and thoughtful; but the
eyes were by turns eager, absent, or sad, and there was much pride in
the carriage of the small head with its hair of wavy gold gathered into
a green snood, whence little tendrils kept breaking loose to dance upon
her forehead, or hang about her neck. A most significant but not a
beautiful face, because of its want of harmony. The dark eyes, among
their fair surroundings, disturbed the sight as a discord in music jars
upon the ear; even when the lips smiled the sombre shadow of black
lashes seemed to fill them with a gloom that was never wholly lost. The
voice, too, which should have been a girlish treble, was full and low as
a matured woman's, with now and then a silvery ring to it, as if another
and a blither creature spoke.

Sylvia could not be offended by the grave penetration of this glance,
though an uncomfortable consciousness that she was being analyzed and
tested made her meet it with a look intended to be dignified, but which
was also somewhat defiant, and more than one smile passed over Warwick's
countenance as he watched her. The moment the boat glided with a soft
swish among the rushes that fringed the shore, she sprang up the bank,
and leaving a basket behind her by way of hint, hurried to the sandy
knoll, where, to her great satisfaction, she found the vines heavy with
berries. As Warwick joined her she held up a shining cluster, saying
with a touch of exultation in her voice--

"My faith is rewarded; taste and believe."

He accepted them with a nod, and said pleasantly--

"As my prophecy has failed, let us see if yours will be fulfilled."

"I accept the challenge." And down upon her knees went Sylvia among the
vines, regardless of stains, rents, or wounded hands.

Warwick strolled away to leave her "claim" free, and silence fell
between them; for one was too busy with thorns, the other with thoughts,
to break the summer stillness. Sylvia worked with as much energy as if a
silver cup was to be the reward of success. The sun shone fervently and
the wind was cut off by the hill, drops gathered on her forehead and her
cheeks glowed; but she only pushed off her hat, thrust back her hair,
and moved on to a richer spot. Vines caught at her by sleeve and skirt
as if to dishearten the determined plunderer, but on she went with a
wrench and a rip, an impatient "Ah!" and a hasty glance at damaged
fabrics and fingers. Lively crickets flew up in swarms about her, surly
wasps disputed her right to the fruit, and drunken bees blundered
against her as they met zigzagging homeward much the worse for
blackberry wine. She never heeded any of them, though at another time
she would gladly have made friends with all, but found compensation for
her discomforts in the busy twitter of sand swallows perched on the
mullein-tops, the soft flight of yellow butterflies, and the rapidity
with which the little canoe received its freight of "Ethiop sweets." As
the last handful went in she sprung up crying "Done!" with a suddenness
that broke up the Long Parliament and sent its members skimming away as
if a second "Noll" had appeared among them. "Done!" came back Warwick's
answer like a deep echo from below, and hurrying down to meet him she
displayed her success, saying archly--

"I am glad we both won, though to be perfectly candid I think mine is
decidedly the fullest." But as she swung up her birch pannier the handle
broke, and down went basket, berries and all, into the long grass
rustling at her feet.

Warwick could not restrain a laugh at the blank dismay that fell upon
the exultation of Sylvia's face, and for a moment she was both piqued
and petulant. Hot, tired, disappointed, and, hardest of all, laughed at,
it was one of those times that try girls' souls. But she was too old to
cry, too proud to complain, too well-bred to resent, so the little gust
passed over unseen, she thought, and joining in the merriment she said,
as she knelt down beside the wreck--

"This is a practical illustration of the old proverb, and I deserve it
for my boasting. Next time I'll try to combine strength and beauty in my
work."

To wise people character is betrayed by trifles. Warwick stopped
laughing, and something about the girlish figure in the grass,
regathering with wounded hands the little harvest lately lost, seemed to
touch him. His face softened suddenly as he collected several broad
leaves, spread them on the grass, and sitting down by Sylvia, looked
under her hat-brim with a glance of mingled penitence and friendliness.

"Now, young philosopher, pile up your berries in that green platter
while I repair the basket. Bear this in mind when you work in bark: make
your handle the way of the grain, and choose a strip both smooth and
broad."

Then drawing out his knife he fell to work, and while he tied green
withes, as if the task were father to the thought, he told her something
of a sojourn among the Indians, of whom he had learned much concerning
their woodcraft, arts, and superstitions; lengthening the legend till
the little canoe was ready for another launch. With her fancy full of
war-trails and wampum, Sylvia followed to the river-side, and as they
floated back dabbled her stained fingers in the water, comforting their
smart with its cool flow till they swept by the landing-place, when she
asked, wonderingly--

"Where are we going now? Have I been so troublesome that I must be taken
home?"

"We are going to get a third course to follow the berries, unless you
are afraid to trust yourself to me."

"Indeed, I'm not; take me where you like, sir."

Something in her frank tone, her confiding look, seemed to please
Warwick; he sat a moment looking into the brown depths of the water, and
let the boat drift, with no sound but the musical drip of drops from the
oars.

"You are going upon a rock, sir."

"I did that three months ago."

He spoke as if to himself, his face darkened, and he shook the hair off
his forehead with an impatient gesture. A swift stroke averted the
shock, and the boat shot down the stream, leaving a track of foam behind
it as Warwick rowed with the energy of one bent on outstripping some
importunate remembrance or dogging care. Sylvia marvelled greatly at the
change which came upon him, but held fast with flying hair and lips
apart to catch the spray, enjoying the breezy flight along a path
tessellated with broad bars of blue and gold. The race ended as abruptly
as it began, and Warwick seemed the winner, for when they touched the
coast of a floating lily-island, the cloud was gone. As he shipped his
oars he turned, saying, with very much the look and manner of a pleasant
boy--

"You were asleep when we passed this morning; but I know you like
lilies, so let us go a fishing."

"That I do!" cried Sylvia, capturing a great white flower with a clutch
that nearly took her overboard. Warwick drew her back and did the
gathering himself.

"Enough, sir, quite enough. Here are plenty to trim our table and
ourselves with; leave the rest for other voyagers who may come this
way."

As Warwick offered her the dripping nosegay he looked at the white hand
scored with scarlet lines.

"Poor hand! let the lilies comfort it. You are a true woman, Miss
Sylvia, for though your palm is purple there's not a stain upon your
lips, and you have neither worked nor suffered for yourself it seems."

"I don't deserve that compliment, because I was only intent on outdoing
you if possible; so you are mistaken again you see."

"Not entirely, I think. Some faces are so true an index of character
that one cannot be mistaken. If you doubt this look down into the river,
and such an one will inevitably smile back at you."

Pleased, yet somewhat abashed, Sylvia busied herself in knotting up the
long brown stems and tinging her nose with yellow pollen as she inhaled
the bitter-sweet breath of the lilies. But when Warwick turned to resume
the oars, she said--

"Let us float out as we floated in. It is so still and lovely here I
like to stay and enjoy it, for we may never see just such a scene
again."

He obeyed, and both sat silent, watching the meadows that lay green and
low along the shore, feeding their eyes with the beauty of the
landscape, till its peaceful spirit seemed to pass into their own, and
lend a subtle charm to that hour, which henceforth was to stand apart,
serene and happy, in their memories forever. A still August day, with a
shimmer in the air that veiled the distant hills with the mellow haze,
no artist ever truly caught. Midsummer warmth and ripeness brooded in
the verdure of field and forest. Wafts of fragrance went wandering by
from new-mown meadows and gardens full of bloom. All the sky wore its
serenest blue, and up the river came frolic winds, ruffling the lily
leaves until they showed their purple linings, sweeping shadowy ripples
through the long grass, and lifting the locks from Sylvia's forehead
with a grateful touch, as she sat softly swaying with the swaying of the
boat. Slowly they drifted out into the current, slowly Warwick cleft the
water with reluctant stroke, and slowly Sylvia's mind woke from its
trance of dreamy delight, as with a gesture of assent she said--

"Yes, I am ready now. That was a happy little moment, and I am glad to
have lived it, for such times return to refresh me when many a more
stirring one is quite forgotten." A moment after she added, eagerly, as
a new object of interest appeared: "Mr. Warwick, I see smoke. I know
there is a wood on fire; I want to see it; please land again."

He glanced over his shoulder at the black cloud trailing away before the
wind, saw Sylvia's desire in her face, and silently complied; for being
a keen student of character, he was willing to prolong an interview that
gave him glimpses of a nature in which the woman and the child were
curiously blended.

"I love fire, and that must be a grand one, if we could only see it
well. This bank is not high enough; let us go nearer and enjoy it," said
Sylvia, finding that an orchard and a knoll or two intercepted the view
of the burning wood.

"It is too far."

"Not at all. I am no helpless, fine lady. I can walk, run, and climb
like any boy; so you need have no fears for me. I may never see such a
sight again, and you know you'd go if you were alone. Please come, Mr.
Warwick."

"I promised Mark to take care of you, and for the very reason that you
love fire, I'd rather not take you into that furnace, lest you never
come out again. Let us go back immediately."

The decision of his tone ruffled Sylvia, and she turned wilful at once,
saying in a tone as decided as his own--

"No; I wish to see it. I am always allowed to do what I wish, so I shall
go;" with which mutinous remark she walked straight away towards the
burning wood.

Warwick looked after her, indulging a momentary desire to carry her back
to the boat, like a naughty child. But the resolute aspect of the figure
going on before him, convinced him that the attempt would be a failure,
and with an amused expression he leisurely followed her.

Sylvia had not walked five minutes before she was satisfied that it
_was_ too far; but having rebelled, she would not own herself in the
wrong, and being perverse, insisted upon carrying her point, though she
walked all night. On she went over walls, under rails, across brooks,
along the furrows of more than one ploughed field, and in among the
rustling corn, that turned its broad leaves to the sun, always in
advance of her companion, who followed with exemplary submission, but
also with a satirical smile, that spurred her on as no other
demonstration could have done. Six o'clock sounded from the church
behind the hill; still the wood seemed to recede as she pursued, still
close behind her came the steady footfalls, with no sound of weariness
in them, and still Sylvia kept on, till, breathless, but successful, she
reached the object of her search.

Keeping to the windward of the smoke, she gained a rocky spot still warm
and blackened by the late passage of the flames, and pausing there,
forgot her own pranks in watching those which the fire played before
her eyes. Many acres were burning, the air was full of the rush and roar
of the victorious element, the crash of trees that fell before it, and
the shouts of men who fought it unavailingly.

"Ah, this is grand! I wish Mark and Mr. Moor were here. Aren't you glad
you came, sir?"

Sylvia glanced up at her companion, as he stood regarding the scene with
the intent, alert expression one often sees in a fine hound when he
scents danger in the air. But Warwick did not answer, for as she spoke a
long, sharp cry of human suffering rose above the tumult, terribly
distinct and full of ominous suggestion.

"Someone was killed when that tree fell! Stay here till I come back;"
and Adam strode away into the wood as if his place were where the peril
lay.

For ten minutes Sylvia waited, pale and anxious; then her patience gave
out, and saying to herself, "I can go where he does, and women are
always more helpful than men at such times," she followed in the
direction whence came the fitful sound of voices. The ground was hot
underneath her feet, red eyes winked at her from the blackened sod, and
fiery tongues darted up here and there, as if the flames were lurking
still, ready for another outbreak. Intent upon her charitable errand,
and excited by the novel scene, she pushed recklessly on, leaping
charred logs, skirting still burning stumps, and peering eagerly into
the dun veil that wavered to and fro. The appearance of an impassable
ditch obliged her to halt, and pausing to take breath, she became aware
that she had lost her way. The echo of voices had ceased, a red glare
was deepening in front, and clouds of smoke enveloped her in a stifling
atmosphere. A sense of bewilderment crept over her; she knew not where
she was; and after a rapid flight in what she believed a safe direction
had been cut short by the fall of a blazing tree before her, she stood
still, taking counsel with herself. Darkness and danger seemed to
encompass her, fire flickered on every side, and suffocating vapors
shrouded earth and sky. A bare rock suggested one hope of safety, and
muffling her head in her skirt, she lay down faint and blind, with a
dull pain in her temples, and a fear at her heart fast deepening into
terror, as her breath grew painful and her head began to swim.

"This is the last of the pleasant voyage! Oh, why does no one think of
me?"

As the regret rose, a cry of suffering and entreaty broke from her. She
had not called for help till now, thinking herself too remote, her voice
too feeble to overpower the din about her. But some one had thought of
her, for as the cry left her lips steps came crashing through the wood,
a pair of strong arms caught her up, and before she could collect her
scattered senses she was set down beyond all danger on the green bank of
a little pool.

"Well, salamander, have you had fire enough?" asked Warwick, as he
dashed a handful of water in her face with such energetic goodwill that
it took her breath away.

"Yes, oh yes,--and of water, too! Please stop, and let me get my
breath!" gasped Sylvia, warding off a second baptism and staring dizzily
about her.

"Why did you quit the place where I left you?" was the next question,
somewhat sternly put.

"I wanted to know what had happened."

"So you walked into a bonfire to satisfy your curiosity, though you had
been told to keep out of it? You'd never make a Casabianca."

"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. 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 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.
Twilight 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 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 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 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; 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 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.




CHAPTER V.

A GOLDEN WEDDING.


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 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 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.

"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 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 appalls 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 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, ain't 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 she dried and redressed herself Sylvia made sundry 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 heap 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 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 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 hasn'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 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.

"Ain't she prime, mother?" was Nat's candid commentary when the story
ended, and he emerged red and shiny 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 ain't 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 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 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.

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 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 boy's 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 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 rough-faced 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 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 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 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 ain't 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, 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 sheaf 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.

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

      "The fairy Lady of Shalott,
    She had left the web and left the loom,
    Had seen the water lilies bloom,
    Had seen the helmet and the plume,
      And had looked down to Camelot."




CHAPTER VI.

WHY SYLVIA WAS HAPPY.


"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; 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."

"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 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 romantic 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 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--

"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 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.

[Illustration]

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 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 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 agitate; 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 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."

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.




CHAPTER VII.

DULL BUT NECESSARY.


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 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.

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 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 dust-pan."

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 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 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 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.




CHAPTER VIII.

NO.


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.

[Illustration]

"I am glad you came, for I have built castles in the air long enough,
and you will give me more substantial entertainment, as you always do."

The broken dream had left tokens of its presence in the unwonted warmth
of Sylvia's manner; Moor felt it, and for a moment did not answer. Much
of her former shyness had crept over her of late; she sometimes shunned
him, was less free in conversation, less frank in demonstration, and
once or twice had colored deeply as she caught his eye upon her. These
betrayals of Warwick's image in her thoughts seemed to Moor the happy
omens he had waited eagerly to see, and each day his hope grew more
assured. He had watched her unseen while she was busied with her mental
pastime, and as he looked his heart had grown unspeakably tender, for
never had her power over him been so fully felt, and never had he so
longed to claim her in the name of his exceeding love. A pleasant peace
reigned through the house, the girl sat waiting at his side, the moment
looked auspicious, the desire grew irresistible, and he yielded to it.

"You are thinking of something new and pleasant to tell me, I
hope,--something in keeping with this quiet place and hour," said
Sylvia, glancing up at him with the traitorous softness still in her
eyes.

"Yes, and hoping you would like it."

"Then I have never heard it before?"

"Never from me."

"Go on, please; I am ready."

She folded her hands together on her knee, turned her face attentively
to his, and unwittingly composed herself to listen to the sweet story so
often told, and yet so hard to tell. Moor meant to woo her very gently,
for he believed that love was new to her. He had planned many graceful
illustrations for his tale, and rounded many smoothly-flowing sentences
in which to unfold it. But the emotions are not well bred, and when the
moment came nature conquered art. No demonstration seemed beautiful
enough to grace the betrayal of his passion, no language eloquent enough
to tell it, no power strong enough to hold in check the impulse that
mastered him. He went to her, knelt down upon the cushion at her feet,
and lifting to her a face flushed and fervent with the ardor of a man's
first love, said impetuously--

"Sylvia, read it here!"

There was no need for her to look; act, touch, and tone told the story
better than the most impassioned speech. The supplication of his
attitude, the eager beating of his heart, the tender pressure of his
hand, dispelled her blindness in the drawing of a breath, and showed her
what she had done. Now neglected warnings, selfish forgetfulness, and
the knowledge of an unconscious but irremediable wrong frightened and
bewildered her; she hid her face and shrunk back trembling with remorse
and shame. Moor, seeing in her agitation only maiden happiness or
hesitancy, accepted and enjoyed a blissful moment while he waited her
reply. It was so long in coming that he gently tried to draw her hands
away and look into her face, whispering like one scarcely doubtful of
assent--

"You love me, Sylvia?"

"No."

Only half audible was the reluctant answer, yet he heard it, smiled at
what he fancied a shy falsehood, and said tenderly--

"Will you let me love you, dear?"

"No."

Fainter than before was the one word, but it reached and startled him.
Hurriedly he asked--

"Am I nothing to you but a friend?"

"No."

With a quick gesture he put down her hands and looked at her. Grief,
regret, and pity, filled her face with trouble, but no love was there.
He saw, yet would not believe the truth, felt that the sweet certainty
of love had gone, yet could not relinquish the fond hope.

"Sylvia, do you understand me?"

"I do, I do! but I cannot say what you would have me, and I must tell
the truth, although it breaks my heart. Geoffrey, I do not love you."

"Can I not teach you?" he pleaded eagerly.

"I have no desire to learn."

Softly she spoke, remorseful she looked, but the words wounded like a
blow. All the glad assurance died, the passionate glow faded, the
caress, half tender, half timid, fell away, and nothing of the happy
lover remained in face or figure. He rose slowly as if the heavy
disappointment oppressed both soul and body. He fixed on her a glance of
mingled incredulity, reproach, and pain, and said, like one bent on
ending suspense at once--

"Did you not see that I loved you? Can you have been trifling with me?
Sylvia, I thought you too simple and sincere for heartless coquetry."

"I am! You shall not suspect me of that, though I deserve all other
reproaches. I have been very selfish, very blind. I should have
remembered that in your great kindness you might like me too well for
your own peace. I should have believed Mark, and been less candid in my
expressions of esteem. But I wanted a friend so much; I found all I
could ask in you; I thought my youth, my faults, my follies, would make
it impossible for you to see in me anything but a wayward girl, who
frankly showed her regard, and was proud of yours. It was one of my sad
mistakes; I see it now; and now it is too late for anything but
penitence. Forgive me if you can; I've taken all the pleasure, and left
you all the pain."

Sylvia spoke in a paroxysm of remorseful sorrow. Moor listened with a
sinking heart, and when she dropped her face into her hands again,
unable to endure the pale expectancy of his, he turned away, saying with
an accent of quiet despair--

"Then I have worked and waited all this summer to see my harvest fail at
last. Oh, Sylvia, I so loved, so trusted you."

He leaned his arm on the low chimney piece, laid down his head upon it
and stood silent, trying to forgive.

It is always a hard moment for any woman, when it demands her bravest
sincerity to look into a countenance of eager love, and change it to one
of bitter disappointment by the utterance of a monosyllable. To Sylvia
it was doubly hard, for now her blindness seemed as incredible as cruel;
her past frankness unjustifiable; her pleasure selfish; her refusal the
blackest ingratitude, and her dream of friendship forever marred. In the
brief pause that fell, every little service he had rendered her, rose
freshly in her memory; every hour of real content and genuine worth that
he had given her, seemed to come back and reproach her; every look,
accent, action, of both happy past and sad present seemed to plead for
him. Her conscience cried out against her, her heart overflowed with
penitence and pity. She looked at him, longing to say something, do
something that should prove her repentance, and assure him of the
affection which she felt. As she looked, two great tears fell glittering
to the hearth, and lay there such eloquent reproaches, that, had
Sylvia's heart been hard and cold as the marble where they shone, it
would have melted then. She could not bear it, she went to him, took in
both her own the rejected hand that hung at his side, and feeling that
no act could too tenderly express her sorrow, lifted it to her lips and
softly kissed it.

An instant she was permitted to lay her cheek against it as a penitent
child mutely imploring pardon might have done. Then it broke from her
hold, and gathering her to himself, Moor looked up exclaiming with
renewed hope, unaltered longing--

"You do care for me, then? You give yourself to me in spite of that hard
No? Ah, Sylvia, you are capricious even in your love."

She could not answer, for if that first No had been hard to utter, this
was impossible. It seemed like turning the knife in the wound, to
disappoint the hope that had gathered strength from despair, and she
could only lay her head down on his breast, weeping the saddest tears
she had ever shed. Still happy in his new delusion, Moor softly stroked
the shining hair, smiling so tenderly, so delightedly, that it was well
for her she did not see the smile, the words were enough.

"Dear Sylvia, I have tried so hard to make you love me, how could you
help it?"

The reason sprung to her lips, but maiden pride and shame withheld it.
What could she tell except that she had cherished a passion, based only
on a look. She had deceived herself in her belief that Moor was but a
friend, might she not also have deceived herself in believing Warwick
was a lover? She could not own this secret, its betrayal could not alter
her reply, nor heal Moor's wound, but the thought of Warwick
strengthened her. It always did, as surely as the influence of his
friend always soothed her, for one was an embodiment of power, the other
of tenderness.

"Geoffrey, let me be true to you and to myself," she said, so earnestly
that it gave weight to her broken words. "I cannot be your wife, but I
can be your dear friend forever. Try to believe this,--make my task
easier by giving up your hope,--and oh, be sure that while I live I
cannot do enough to show my sorrow for the great wrong I have done you."

"Must it be so? I find it very hard to accept the truth and give up the
hope that has made my happiness so long. Let me keep it, Sylvia; let me
wait and work again. I have a firm belief that you _will_ love me yet,
because I cleave to you with heart and soul, long for you continually,
and think you the one woman of the world."

"Ah, if it were only possible!" she sighed.

"Let me make it so! In truth, I think I should not labor long. You are
so young, dear, you have not learned to know your own heart yet. It was
not pity nor penitence alone that brought you here to comfort me. Was
it, Sylvia?"

"Yes. Had it been love, could I stand as I am now and not show it?"

She looked up at him, showed him that though her cheeks were wet there
was no rosy dawn of passion there; though her eyes were as full of
affection as of grief, there was no shy avoidance of his own, no
dropping of the lids, lest they should tell too much; and though his arm
encircled her, she did not cling to him as loving women cling when they
lean on the strength which, touched by love, can both cherish and
sustain. That look convinced him better than a flood of words. A long
sigh broke from his lips, and, turning from her the eyes that had so
wistfully searched and found not, they went wandering drearily hither
and thither as if seeking the hope whose loss made life seem desolate.
Sylvia saw it, groaned within herself, but still held fast to the hard
truth, and tried to make it kinder.

"Geoffrey, I once heard you say to Mark, 'Friendship is the best college
character can graduate from. Believe in it, seek for it, and when it
comes keep it as sacredly as love.' All my life I have wanted a friend,
have looked for one, and when he came I welcomed him. May I not keep
him, and preserve the friendship dear and sacred still, although I
cannot offer love?"

Softly, seriously, she spoke, but the words sounded cold to him;
friendship seemed so poor now, love so rich, he could not leave the
blessed sunshine which transfigured the whole earth and sit down in the
little circle of a kindly fire without keen regret.

"I should say yes, I will try to do it if nothing easier remains to me.
Sylvia, for five years I have longed and waited for a home. Duty forbade
it then, because poor Marion had only me to make her sad life happy, and
my mother left her to my charge. Now the duty is ended, the old house
very empty, my heart very hungry for affection. You are all in all to
me, and I find it so difficult to relinquish my dream that I must be
importunate. I have spoken too soon, you have had no time to think, to
look into yourself and question your own heart. Go, now, recall what I
have said, remember that I will wait for you patiently, and when I
leave, an hour hence, come down and give me my last answer."

Sylvia was about to speak, but the sound of an approaching step brought
over her the shyness she had not felt before, and without a word she
darted from the room. Then romance also fled, for Prue came bustling in,
and Moor was called to talk of influenzas, while his thoughts were full
of love.

Alone in her chamber Sylvia searched herself. She pictured the life that
would be hers with Moor. The old house so full of something better than
its opulence, an atmosphere of genial tranquillity which made it
home-like to whoever crossed its threshold. Herself the daily companion
and dear wife of the master who diffused such sunshine there; whose
serenity soothed her restlessness; whose affection would be as enduring
as his patience; whose character she so truly honored. She felt that no
woman need ask a happier home, a truer or more tender lover. But when
she looked into herself she found the cordial, unimpassioned sentiment
he first inspired still unchanged, and her heart answered--

"This is friendship."

She thought of Warwick, and the other home that might be hers. Fancy
painted in glowing colors the stirring life, the novelty, excitement,
and ever new delight such wanderings would have for her. The joy of
being always with him; the proud consciousness that she was nearest and
dearest to such a man; the certainty that she might share the knowledge
of his past, might enjoy his present, help to shape his future. There
was no time to look into her heart, for up sprung its warm blood to her
cheek, its hope to her eye, its longing to her lips, its answer glad and
ready--

"Ah, this is love!"

The clock struck ten, and after lingering a little Sylvia went down.
Slowly, because her errand was a hard one; thoughtfully, because she
knew not where nor how she could best deliver it. No need to look for
him or linger for his coming; he was already there. Alone in the hall,
absently smoothing a little silken shawl she often wore, and waiting
with a melancholy patience that smote her to the heart. He went to meet
her, took both her hands in his, and looked into her face so tenderly,
so wistfully!--

"Sylvia, is it good night or good by?"

Her eyes filled, her hands trembled, her color paled, but she answered
steadily--

"Forgive me; it is good by."




CHAPTER IX.

HOLLY.


"Another gift for you, Sylvia. I don't know the writing, but it smells
like flowers," said Mark, as a smiling maid brought in a package on
Christmas morning.

Sylvia tore off the wrapper, lifted a cover, and exclaimed with
pleasure, though it was the simplest present she had received that day.
Only an osier basket, graceful in design and shape, lined with moss, and
filled with holly sprays, the scarlet berries glowing beautifully among
the polished green. No note, no card, no hint of its donor anywhere
appeared, for none of them recognized the boldly written address.
Presently a thought came to Sylvia; in a moment the mystery seemed to
grow delightfully clear, and she said to herself with a glow of joy,
"This is so like Adam I know he sent it."

"I must say it is the most peculiar present I ever saw, and it is my
belief that the boy who brought it stole whatever article of value it
contained, for it was very carelessly done up. No person in their senses
would send a few sprigs of common holly to a young lady in this odd
way," said Prue, poking here and there in hopes of finding some clue.

"It is not common, but very beautiful; we seldom see any so large and
green, and full of berries. Nor is it odd, but very kind, because from
the worn look of the wrapper I know it has been sent a long way to
please me. Look at the little ferns in the moss, and smell the sweet
moist odor that seems to take us into summer woods in spite of a
snowstorm. Ah, he knew what I should like."

"Who knew?" asked Mark, quickly.

"You must guess." And fearing that she had betrayed herself, Sylvia
hurried across the room to put the holly in water.

"Ah, ha, I see," said Mark, laughing.

"Who is it?" asked Prue, looking mystified.

"Geoffrey," whispered Mr. Yule, with an air of satisfaction.

Then all three looked at one another, all three nodded sagely, and all
three glanced at the small person bending over the table with cheeks
almost as rosy as the berries in her hand.

Every one knows what a Christmas party is when a general friendliness
pervades the air, and good wishes fly about like _confetti_ during
Carnival. To such an one went Sylvia and Mark that night, the brother
looking unusually blithe and debonair, because the beloved Jessie had
promised to be there if certain aunts and uncles would go away in time;
the sister in a costume as

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