its morning ablutions, hovering about
its crib when it slept, daily discovering beauties invisible even to its
mother's eyes, and working early and late on dainty garments, rich in
the embroidery which she now thanked Prue for teaching her against her
will. The touch of the baby hands seemed to heal her sore heart; the
sound of the baby voice, even when most unmusical, had a soothing effect
upon her nerves; the tender cares its helplessness demanded absorbed her
thoughts, and kept her happy in a new world whose delights she had never
known till now.

From this time a restful expression replaced the patient hopelessness
her face had worn before, and in the lullabys she sang the listeners
caught echoes of the cheerful voice they had never thought to hear
again. Gay she was not, but serene. Quiet was all she asked; and
shunning society seemed happiest to sit at home with baby and its gentle
mother, with Mark, now painting as if inspired, or with her father, who
relinquished business and devoted himself to her. A pleasant pause
seemed to have come after troublous days; a tranquil hush in which she
sat waiting for what time should bring her. But as she waited the woman
seemed to bloom more beautifully than the girl had done. Light and color
revisited her countenance clearer and deeper than of old; fine lines
ennobled features faulty in themselves; and the indescribable refinement
of a deep inward life made itself manifest in look, speech, and gesture,
giving promise of a gracious womanhood.

Mr. Yule augured well from this repose, and believed the dawning
loveliness to be a herald of returning love. He was thinking hopeful
thoughts one day as he sat writing to Moor, whose faithful correspondent
he had become, when Sylvia came in with one of the few notes she sent
her husband while away.

"Just in time. God bless me, child! what is it?"

Well might he exclaim, for in his daughter's face he saw an expression
which caused his hope to suddenly become a glad belief. Her lips smiled,
though in her eyes there lay a shadow which he could not comprehend, and
her answer did not enlighten him as she put her arm about his neck and
laid her slip of paper in his hand.

"Enclose my note, and send the letter; then, father, we will talk."

CHAPTER XX.

COME.

In a small Italian town not far from Rome, a traveller stood listening
to an account of a battle lately fought near by, in which the town had
suffered much, yet been f