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