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