all this summer to see my harvest fail at
last. Oh, Sylvia, I so loved, so trusted you."

He leaned his arm on the low chimney piece, laid down his head upon it
and stood silent, trying to forgive.

It is always a hard moment for any woman, when it demands her bravest
sincerity to look into a countenance of eager love, and change it to one
of bitter disappointment by the utterance of a monosyllable. To Sylvia
it was doubly hard, for now her blindness seemed as incredible as cruel;
her past frankness unjustifiable; her pleasure selfish; her refusal the
blackest ingratitude, and her dream of friendship forever marred. In the
brief pause that fell, every little service he had rendered her, rose
freshly in her memory; every hour of real content and genuine worth that
he had given her, seemed to come back and reproach her; every look,
accent, action, of both happy past and sad present seemed to plead for
him. Her conscience cried out against her, her heart overflowed with
penitence and pity. She looked at him, longing to say something, do
something that should prove her repentance, and assure him of the
affection which she felt. As she looked, two great tears fell glittering
to the hearth, and lay there such eloquent reproaches, that, had
Sylvia's heart been hard and cold as the marble where they shone, it
would have melted then. She could not bear it, she went to him, took in
both her own the rejected hand that hung at his side, and feeling that
no act could too tenderly express her sorrow, lifted it to her lips and
softly kissed it.

An instant she was permitted to lay her cheek against it as a penitent
child mutely imploring pardon might have done. Then it broke from her
hold, and gathering her to himself, Moor looked up exclaiming with
renewed hope, unaltered longing--

"You do care for me, then? You give yourself to me in spite of that hard
No? Ah, Sylvia, you are capricious even in your love."

She could not answer, for if that first No had been hard to utter, this
was impossible. It seemed like turning the knife in the wound, to
disappoint the hope that had gathered strength from despair, and she
could only lay her head down on his breast, weeping the saddest tears
she had ever shed. Still happy in his new delusion, Moor softly stroked
the shining hair, smiling so tenderly, so delightedly, that it was well
for her she did not see the smile, the words were enough.

"Dear Sylvia, I have tried so hard to make you