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 he