s to experience. She would be
lifted out of her present occupations and interests; for Sylvie was too
clear-eyed to blind herself with the specious reasoning that as the wife
of a rich man's son, she would be a greater power in the world for good.
They would fit her into _their_ sphere. She fancied herself coming to an
aimless middle-life like that of Mrs. Lawrence, taking no interest in
any thing, but reading novels, and complaining, to pass away the time.

Did she really care for any one else? More than one young man in Yerbury
had paid her the peculiar deferential attention that asks encouragement
if there is any to give, but is too truly delicate to proceed without.
Then there was Jack, who understood her soul better than any one else;
but had he touched her heart in a lover-like way?

She turned her clear, honest eyes to the blue overhead, as if taking
Heaven for a witness. Her heart and fancy were quite free. Much as she
cared for him, there was no thrill of that high sentiment in it.

In some fascinating ideal life she had seen a lover with whom she could
walk down through the years, whose life would touch hers at all points,
who could fathom the depths of the nature that so puzzled herself, who
could measure and supply the yearning reaches of intellect; who could
awake in her soul a love, strong, deep, and unquestioning, so fervent,
indeed, that she would turn from all other dreams and desires to him. A
young girl's ideal--perhaps it is well for the world that some women
have ideals, and keep faith with them.

As for Fred, his vanity led him straight on. She tried honestly to place
herself right in his estimation; but he misunderstood her, and liked her
the better for the variety. She saw too, with dismay, that her aunt
favored him. Her natural kindness of heart shrank from the pain of
rejecting him, and to her the triumph had no pleasure. But in her
anxiety and desperation she saw only this one course.

He dropped in nearly every day, he took her and Miss Barry to drive. He
haunted croquet-parties, which he hated, because she accepted
invitations to them. He never met Jack. Some fine sense warned the
latter that an encounter in Sylvie's parlor would be uncomfortable.
Yet, strange to say, sometimes when he saw the handsome fellow
sauntering by, a peculiar tenderness came over him, remembering the
little boy who had clung fondly to him.

An old-fashioned courtship would prove no end of a bore, Fred decided.