ed. Tall, but robust and compact, no stooping
shoulders or slouching gait. The chestnut hair was no longer faded, but
still cropped close; and the eyes were so deep that they seemed to have
a blue-black tint, large, slow-moving, with that unutterable wistfulness
which makes one sad. The face was good, strong, and earnest; and, if his
manners were not those of a gentleman of leisure, they bore the impress
of something quite as noble, honor, tenderness, and sincerity. The old
restlessness had dropped out. Love, being larger than duty, hinted now
at no sacrifice. Grandmother Darcy, now grown quite feeble, leaned on
this strong arm, always outstretched, forgetting there had ever been any
wild dreams of youth.

And, though Yerbury had changed so much, they and the old street
remained unchanged. Mrs. Darcy was a little thinner and older, the light
hair just touched with silver. The garden was the same: wherever his
father's favorite flowers had died out, Jack had replaced them. Only the
honeysuckle was like great twisted ropes, and the syringas and lilacs
were trees instead of bushes.

Old neighbors had gone, and new ones come, but they were of the quiet,
steady kind. Miss Barry seemed smaller and frailer, but she was as
active as ever in her refined way. Sylvie no longer came to the gate for
milk: indeed, the wide-eyed Alderney had long been given up, and Sylvie
was a young woman. Irene Lawrence had been sent to a fashionable
boarding-school; but Sylvie had been educated at home, under her aunt's
eye, by a French governess who had proved something more than a mere
teacher. The coming of Madame Trepier served to cement more closely the
intimacy with the Darcy family. Indeed, Jack took a queer, half-shy
liking for madame, and began to study French. He had a great fondness
for music, and a fine, rich tenor-voice: so he and Sylvie sang duets
together, and often walked in the twilight with madame. Indeed, Miss
Barry would have kept her for friend and companion all the rest of her
life; but there came a very persistent wooer, and madame succumbed a
second time to the destiny of women.

Sylvie Barry was piquant rather than pretty: a soft peachy skin neither
dark nor fair, with a creamy tint; deep lustrous hazel eyes, that seemed
to change with her moods; hair that had barely shaken off the golden
tint, and clustered in rings about the low broad forehead; a passable
nose of no particular design, but a really beautiful mouth and ch