picture before him, sweet as it
was,--the young girl in a soft flowing white dress (she was too true an
artist to have starchy outlines), the shimmering hair, the delicate
wavering color, the proud poise of the head, the plump white arm and
slender fingers with their pale-pink nails, and, above all, the
exquisite voice that seemed so to enter into the culmination of the
story, the last few sentences of pathos, joy, and complete fruition.

She closed her book. Neither of the ladies spoke. Mrs. Lawrence had been
deeply touched. She lived almost exclusively in this world of fictitious
sentiment, I was going to say; but I remember that it is often a
transcript of human lives. Still she liked sentiment in books, out of
them she scarcely recognized it.

There was a step and a low tap at the door; then, before Mrs. Lawrence
could answer, Fred marched in, kissed his mother dutifully, and shook
hands with Sylvie.

He had always liked Sylvie better as a little girl than any one else who
ever came to the house, and he liked her now. How happy his mother would
be! for of course they would go on living here. Irene would be away
presently, and his parents would need some one. His summer work was
mapped out before him; and really it was a pleasure to think he should
escape the bore of society as one found it at summer-resorts, and
entertain himself with this piquant brown-eyed girl with a heart fresh
as a rose. He did not want a woman who had been wooed by every Tom,
Dick, and Harry.

Yet another and more heroic thought entered his mind after chatting with
her a few moments. He would save _her_ as well. She might have a slight
fancy for Jack Darcy: his sisters had spoken of it, and these great,
fair, muscular giants were often attractive to women, through the very
strength and rude force with which they pushed their suit. But such a
lumbering, vulgar fellow in Miss Barry's dainty, womanish parlor! and he
smiled at the thought. Yes, he would be doing a good deed to snatch
Sylvie from any such possibility.

Fred Lawrence suddenly assumed a new importance in his own eyes. He made
himself very agreeable to both ladies. Sylvie remained to dinner; and,
when Mrs. Lawrence would have sent her home in the carriage, he proposed
to escort her,--he wished to pay his respects to Miss Barry.

They did not take the most direct course, but, leaving the streets with
their noise of children and possibly vulgar contact, strolled through
"Lovers'