eye still rested on the valley where the
river flowed, the elms waved their budding boughs in the bland air, and
the meadows wore their earliest tinge of green. But she was not
conscious of these things till the sight of a solitary figure coming
slowly up the hill recalled her to the present and the duties it still
held for her.

"Here is Geoffrey! How wearily he walks,--how changed and old he
looks,--oh, why was I born to be a curse to all who love me!"

"Hush, Sylvia, say anything but that, because it casts reproach upon
your father. Your life is but just begun; make it a blessing, not a
curse, as all of us have power to do; and remember that for every
affliction there are two helpers, who can heal or end the heaviest we
know--Time and Death. The first we may invoke and wait for; the last God
alone can send when it is better not to live."

"I will try to be patient. Will you meet and tell Geoffrey what has
passed? I have no strength left but for passive endurance."

Faith went; Sylvia heard the murmur of earnest conversation; then steps
came rapidly along the hall, and Moor was in the room. She rose
involuntarily, but for a moment neither spoke, for never had they met as
now. Each regarded the other as if a year had rolled between them since
they parted, and each saw in the other the changes that one day had
wrought. Neither the fire of resentment nor the frost of pride now
rendered Moor's face stormy or stern. Anxious and worn it was, with
newly graven lines upon the forehead and melancholy curves about the
mouth, but the peace of a conquered spirit touched it with a pale
serenity, and some perennial hope shone in the glance he bent upon his
wife. For the first time in her life Sylvia was truly beautiful,--not
physically, for never had she looked more weak and wan, but spiritually,
as the inward change made itself manifest in an indescribable expression
of meekness and of strength. With suffering came submission, with
repentance came regeneration, and the power of the woman yet to be,
touched with beauty the pathos of the woman now passing through the
fire.

"Faith has told you what has passed between us, and you know that my
loss is a double one," she said. "Let me add that I deserve it, that I
clearly see my mistakes, will amend such as I can, bear the consequences
of such as are past help, try to profit by all, and make no new ones. I
cannot be your wife, I ought not to be Adam's; but I may be myself, may
l