efore the
one deep window looking down the valley, and gently chafing the chilly
hands in warm ones, said nothing more till Sylvia spoke.

"He has told you all the wrong I have done him?"

"Yes, and found a little comfort here. Do you need consolation also?"

"Can you ask? But I need something more, and no one can give it to me so
well as you. I want to be set right, to hear things called by their true
names, to be taken out of myself and made to see why I am always doing
wrong while trying to do well."

"Your father, sister, or brother are fitter for that task than I. Have
you tried them?"

"No, and I will not. They love me, but they could not help me; for they
would beg me to conceal if I cannot forget, to endure if I cannot
conquer, and abide by my mistake at all costs. That is not the help I
want. I desire to know the one just thing to be done, and to be made
brave enough to do it, though friends lament, gossips clamor, and the
heavens fall. I am in earnest now. Rate me sharply, drag out my
weaknesses, shame my follies, show no mercy to my selfish hopes; and
when I can no longer hide from myself put me in the way I should go, and
I will follow it though my feet bleed at every step."

She was in earnest now, terribly so, but still Faith drew back, though
her compassionate face belied her hesitating words.

"Go to Adam; who wiser or more just than he?"

"I cannot. He, as well as Geoffrey, loves me too well to decide for me.
You stand between them, wise as the one, gentle as the other, and you do
not care for me enough to let affection hoodwink reason. Faith, you
bade me come; do not cast me off, for if you shut your heart against me
I know not where to go."

Despairing she spoke, disconsolate she looked, and Faith's reluctance
vanished. The maternal aspect returned, her voice resumed its warmth,
her eye its benignity, and Sylvia was reassured before a word was
spoken.

"I do not cast you off, nor shut my heart against you. I only hesitated
to assume such responsibility, and shrunk from the task because of
compassion, not coldness. Sit here, and tell me all your trouble,
Sylvia?"

"That is so kind! It seems quite natural to turn to you as if I had a
claim upon you. Let me have, and if you can, love me a little, because I
have no mother, and need one very much."

"My child, you shall not need one any more."

"I feel that, and am comforted already. Faith, if you were me, and stood
where I stand, beloved