nd forget this dismal home until its
rest grows inviting, Sylvia?"

"No, Geoffrey, not yet. I will learn to make the home pleasant, I will
work harder, and leave no time for ennui and discontent. I promised to
make your happiness, and I can do it better here than anywhere. Let me
try again."

"No, Sylvia, you work too hard already; you do everything with such
vehemence you wear out your body before your will is weary, and that
brings melancholy. I am very credulous, but when I see that acts belie
words I cease to believe. These months assure me that you are not happy;
have I found the secret thorn that frets you?"

She did not answer, for truth she could not, and falsehood she would
not, give him. He rose, went walking to and fro, searching memory,
heart, and conscience for any other cause, but found none, and saw only
one way out of his bewilderment. He drew a chair before her, sat down,
and looking at her with the masterful expression dominant in his face,
asked briefly--

"Sylvia, have I been tyrannical, unjust, unkind, since you came to me?"

"Oh, Geoffrey, too generous, too just, too tender!"

"Have I claimed any rights but those you gave me, entreated or demanded
any sacrifices knowingly and wilfully?"

"Never."

"Now I do claim my right to know your heart; I do entreat and demand one
thing, your confidence."

Then she felt that the hour had come, and tried to prepare to meet it as
she should by remembering that she had endeavored prayerfully,
desperately, despairingly, to do her duty, and had failed. Warwick was
right, she could not forget him. There was such vitality in the man and
in the sentiment he inspired, that it endowed his memory with a power
more potent than the visible presence of her husband. The knowledge of
his love now undid the work that ignorance had helped patience and
pride to achieve before. The more she struggled to forget, the deeper,
dearer, grew the yearning that must be denied, till months of fruitless
effort convinced her that it was impossible to outlive a passion more
indomitable than will, or penitence, or perseverance. Now she saw the
wisdom of Adam's warning, and felt that he knew both his friend's heart
and her own better than herself. Now she bitterly regretted that she had
not spoken out when he was there to help her, and before the least
deceit had taken the dignity from sorrow. Nevertheless, though she
trembled she resolved; and while Moor spoke on, she made ready to