the window; it was the habitual place for the one
who stayed behind; for excepting on market-day there was little or
no custom during the noon-hour. Formerly he used to move the drapery
with which the window was ornamented, and watch the passers-by with
careless eye. But now, though he seemed to gaze abroad, he saw
nothing but vacancy. All the morning since he got up he had been
trying to fight through his duties--leaning against a hope--a hope
that first had bowed, and then had broke as soon as he really tried
its weight. There was not a sign of Sylvia's liking for him to be
gathered from the most careful recollection of the past evening. It
was of no use thinking that there was. It was better to give it up
altogether and at once. But what if he could not? What if the
thought of her was bound up with his life; and that once torn out by
his own free will, the very roots of his heart must come also?

No; he was resolved he would go on; as long as there was life there
was hope; as long as Sylvia remained unpledged to any one else,
there was a chance for him. He would remodel his behaviour to her.
He could not be merry and light-hearted like other young men; his
nature was not cast in that mould; and the early sorrows that had
left him a lonely orphan might have matured, but had not enlivened,
his character. He thought with some bitterness on the power of easy
talking about trifles which some of those he had met with at the
Corneys' had exhibited. But then he felt stirring within him a force
of enduring love which he believed to be unusual, and which seemed
as if it must compel all things to his wish in the end. A year or so
ago he had thought much of his own cleverness and his painfully
acquired learning, and he had imagined that these were the qualities
which were to gain Sylvia. But now, whether he had tried them and
had failed to win even her admiration, or whether some true instinct
had told him that a woman's love may be gained in many ways sooner
than by mere learning, he was only angry with himself for his past
folly in making himself her school--nay, her taskmaster. To-night,
though, he would start off on a new tack. He would not even upbraid
her for her conduct the night before; he had shown her his
displeasure at the time; but she should see how tender and forgiving
he could be. He would lure her to him rather than find fault with
her. There had perhaps been too much of that already.

When Coulson came back P