ths and
flung them in the fire; took down the bow and arrow Warwick had made her
from above the _etagere_, where she had arranged the spoils of her happy
voyage, snapped them across her knee and sent them after the holly;
followed by the birch canoe, and every pebble, moss, shell, or bunch of
headed grass he had given her then. The osier basket was not spared, the
box went next, and even the wrapper was on its way to immolation, when,
as she rent it apart, with a stern pleasure in the sacrifice it was
going to complete, from some close fold of the paper hitherto
undisturbed a card dropped at her feet.

She caught it up and read in handwriting almost as familiar as her own:
"To Sylvia,--A merry Christmas and best wishes from her friend, Geoffrey
Moor." The word "friend" was underscored, as if he desired to assure her
that he still cherished the only tie permitted him, and sent the green
token to lighten her regret that she could give no more.

Warm over Sylvia's sore heart rushed the tender thought and longing, as
her tears began to flow. "He cares for me! he remembered me! I wish he
would come back and comfort me!"

CHAPTER X.

YES.

It is easy to say, "I will forget," but perhaps the hardest task given
us is to lock up a natural yearning of the heart, and turn a deaf ear to
its plaint, for captive and jailer must inhabit the same small cell.
Sylvia was proud, with that pride which is both sensitive and
courageous, which can not only suffer but wring strength from suffering.
While she struggled with a grief and shame that aged her with their
pain, she asked no help, made no complaint; but when the forbidden
passion stretched its arms to her, she thrust it back and turned to
pleasure for oblivion.

Those who knew her best were troubled and surprised by the craving for
excitement which now took possession of her, the avidity with which she
gratified it, regardless of time, health, and money. All day she hurried
here and there, driving, shopping, sight-seeing, or entertaining guests
at home. Night brought no cessation of her dissipation, for when balls,
masquerades, and concerts failed, there still remained the theatre. This
soon became both a refuge and a solace, for believing it to be less
harmful than other excitements, her father indulged her new whim. But,
had she known it, this was the most dangerous pastime she could have
chosen. Calling for no exertion of her own, it left her free to
passively recei