So one day he marched over to Larch Avenue when he knew Miss Barry was
alone, and laid his case before her. She received him with graceful
kindliness, listened to his offer, and assented with evident pleasure.
There was not a happier woman that night in all Yerbury than Miss Barry.
The care and desire of her life had been justly crowned. Her good-night
kiss to Sylvie was inexpressibly sweet.

Fred did not see Sylvie for the next two days, but meanwhile wrought
himself into a state that he was quite sure was proper and well-bred
love. Then she came to Hope Terrace, and they kept her to tea. The late,
heavy dinners were dispensed with at present.

"Will you walk home, to-night, Sylvie?" asked Fred. "I feel in a walking
mood."

"The slightest symptom of industry ought to be encouraged," she made
answer gayly. She had been of some real service this afternoon, charmed
away a fretful headache, and restored Mrs. Lawrence to a comfortable
state of feeling, and was correspondingly light-hearted. Then, too, Fred
had kept out of the way, and been gravely polite to her at the
tea-table. She liked him in such moods.

It was a late August evening, with a small crescent moon shining softly
as if its forces were well-nigh spent. The heat of the day was over, and
the falling dew evolved a kind of autumnal sweetness, the flavor of
ripening fruits rather than flowers. Yerbury was very quiet in the part
they were to traverse. They walked under great maples where a shadowy
light sifted through, and the houses looked like fragments of dreams,
with here and there a lamp in a distant window. The slow wind wandered
through pines and hemlocks, as if some fairy Puck had laid his finger to
his lips, saying to crooning insects, "Hush, hush!" A night to dream as
one went down "Lovers' Lane."

Sylvie was radiantly beautiful. Her face always changed so with her
moods. Every feature had a perfect sculptured look, but intensely
human,--the straight nose with the flexible, sensitive nostrils,
quivering at any sudden breath, the dainty chin and white throat, the
red curved lips that seem to smile at some inward, richly satisfying
thought, the large lustrous eyes serious as those of a nun, and the
calm, clear brow that seemed to index the strength and fineness of the
nature. He did not take in any of the occult meanings: to him she was
simply a pretty girl whom he could dress in silk instead of lawn.

The small hand had lain on his arm without the f