ith a view to the admiration they might
win. He could seem to strike no electric spark, though he succeeded in
restoring her to health. Every week of her stay at Depford Beach, she
had improved; but there was the old, dreary, listless life. She used to
think herself, if some shock like that of an earthquake could lift her
completely out of it! but none came.

For it could not be said that Miss Barry's illness was any shock to her.
People were sick, and died, and their perplexity was at an end. A
generous, kindly life like this of Miss Barry's would have its
reward--if any life ever was rewarded. She did not doubt so much: she
had never really believed.

As she said to Sylvie, something stronger than herself had sent her that
night,--one of those powerful, impelling influences that few can resist.
And Sylvie was wise enough not to lose her hold. She drew her in very
gently, she preached no sermon, she asked favors frankly.

"I want you to take my pony-carriage," she said one day, after their
return to Yerbury. "I ought to go out every day, and if you come with it
I shall; but if I am left to my own fancies, there will be so much to
occupy me. Then, too, companionship is always very tempting."

"I should be glad to do any thing for you," was the quiet, unemotional
reply.

So the carriage was brought every morning to the door. It seemed so odd,
the day she first drove around Yerbury! Unconsciously the old
stateliness returned. Her heart swelled with contradictory phases of
thought and feeling. She was too really proud to suffer from the stings
of petty vanity. She knew there were people who stared at Miss Lawrence;
and she allowed them to stare with the serenity of a queen, going her
way unmoved.

She and Sylvie went through lanes and by-ways this gorgeous October day.
Her heart was strangely touched by the glory, by the odorous air, the
softened sounds, and brooding tenderness. Sylvie had a few errands to
some old parishioners of her aunt's; and, while she went in cottages,
Irene sat with the reins idly in her hands. There was much in the world
she had never seen, though she had climbed Alps, and wandered in sunny
vales. The ripeness and perfection of this midday was exhilarating. They
talked in little snatches, and then were silent.

Coming back they drove through the town: it was nearer. Crossing over to
Larch Avenue, a tall figure confronted them. Sylvie bowed, and looked
straight on, remembering such a rencoun