in, the
latter dimpled, the former with a short curved upper lip, displaying the
pearly teeth at the faintest smile; barely medium height, with a figure
that was slim yet not thin, rounded, graceful, pliant, with some of the
swift dazzling motions of a bird.

While Jack and Fred had drifted so apart, Sylvie and Irene still kept up
a curious friendship. On Sylvie's part there was no election: indeed,
Irene in her imperious fashion took Sylvie up as the mood seized her.
Mrs. Lawrence, now quite an invalid, was fond of Sylvie's bright face
and gay inspiriting voice. In Irene's absence she was often sending for
her. "Play me a little song before you go," she would say; or, "Read a
chapter in my book for me, will you not? You always make people seem so
real." Consequently Sylvie had never left off going to the great house.
Mrs. Eastman would fain have patronized her, but in her spirited way she
shook off the faintest attempt. But Irene flew to her, and insisted upon
a croquet-party or a drive, or a musical soiree.

"I can't do without you, you obstinate little thing," she would exclaim.
"I don't know why I take so much trouble about you; for I don't believe
you like me at all, but just tolerate me for the sake of old times.
There are twenty girls in Yerbury who would go wild with delight if I
were to ask them."

"Why do you not, then?" inquired Sylvie with a tantalizing light in her
eyes.

"Because I don't choose to, Miss Impertinence! Don't be cross now, and
torment me to death with your perverse ways."

"You surely need not be tormented."

"Sylvie, you are exasperating."

"Why do you ask me, then, or tease me to do any of these things? I would
rather stay at home to-day, and paint."

"But I shall not give you up. I'll stay here, and talk so that your wits
will wander!"

And so at last Sylvie would consent to her friend's demands.

One evening she came over to discuss a costume for a fancy-dress
garden-party. Mrs. Eastman had brought some fashion-plates up from New
York, but they did not altogether suit her fancy: so the carriage was
ordered, and in a few moments it rolled to Sylvie's door.

Sylvie and Jack were at the piano. There was a soft, drizzling,
summer-night rain, that made all the air fragrant without any noisy
patter. It was just the evening for an old Latin hymn; and Sylvie was
playing the strong, rich chords that had in them mysterious hints of
heavenly joy, coming up through waves of passionate s