r 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 scarcel