courage, self-denial, and self-help,
make you what you are, can I have a more effectual guide? You say you
shall outlive this passion; why should not I imitate your brave example,
and find the consolations you shall find? Oh, Adam, let me try."

"You shall."

"Then go; go now, while I can say it as I should."

"The good Lord bless and help you, Sylvia."

She gave him both her hands, but though he only pressed them silently,
that pressure nearly destroyed the victory she had won, for the strong
grasp snapped the slender guard-ring Moor had given her a week ago. She
heard it drop with a golden tinkle on the hearth, saw the dark oval,
with its doubly significant character, roll into the ashes, and felt
Warwick's hold tighten as if he echoed the emphatic word uttered when
the ineffectual gift was first bestowed. Superstition flowed in Sylvia's
blood, and was as unconquerable as the imagination which supplied its
food. This omen startled her. It seemed a forewarning that endeavor
would be vain, that submission was wisdom, and that the husband's charm
had lost its virtue when the stronger power claimed her. The desire to
resist began to waver as the old passionate longing sprang up more
eloquent than ever; she felt the rush of a coming impulse, knew that it
would sweep her into Warwick's arms, there to forget her duty, to
forfeit his respect. With the last effort of a sorely tried spirit she
tore her hands away, fled up to the room which had never needed lock or
key till now, and stifling the sound of those departing steps among the
cushions of the little couch where she had wept away childish woes and
dreamed girlish dreams, she struggled with the great sorrow of her too
early womanhood, uttering with broken voice that petition oftenest
quoted from the one prayer which expresses all our needs--

"Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from evil."

CHAPTER XVII.

ASLEEP AND AWAKE.

March winds were howling round the house, the clock was striking two,
the library lamp still burned, and Moor sat writing with an anxious
face. Occasionally, he paused to look backward through the leaves of the
book in which he wrote; sometimes he sat with suspended pen, thinking
deeply; and once or twice he laid it down, to press his hand over eyes
more weary than the mind that compelled them to this late service.

Returning to his work after one of these pauses, he was a little
startled to see Sylvia standing on the thresh