pening it, I
revealed to Sylvia's astonished eyes the cunning little frieze of
Bacchus and Ariadne, followed by a troop of Satyrs and Bacchantes,
which the artist had designed to encircle one of the white columns of
that little marble temple which sat before me.

"You know," I said, "how in fairy tales, when the wandering hero or the
maiden in distress has a guiding dream, the dream often leaves
something behind on the pillow to assure them of its authenticity.
'When you wake up,' the dream will say, 'you will find a rose or an
oak-leaf or an eagle's feather, or whatever it may be, on your pillow.'
Well, I have brought this stocking--for which, if I might but use them,
I have at the moment a stock of the most appropriately endearing
adjectives--for the same purpose. By this token you will know that the
fairy tale I have been telling you is true, and to-morrow, if you will,
you shall see your autograph petticoat."

"Why, wherever did you come across them? And what a mad creature you
must be! and what an odd thing that you should really meet me, after
all!" exclaimed Sylvia, all in a breath. "Of course, I remember," she
said frankly, and with a shade of sadness passing over her face. "I
was spending a holiday with Jack Wentworth,--why, it must be nearly two
years ago. Poor Jack! he was killed in the Soudan," and poor Jack
could have wished no prettier resurrection than the look of tender
memory that came into her face as she spoke of him, and the soft baby
tears filled her eyes.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "Of course I didn't know. Let's come for a
little stroll. There seems to be a lovely moon."

"Of course you didn't," she said, patting my cheek with a kind little
hand. "Yes, do let us go for a stroll."

CHAPTER XI

"THE HOUR FOR WHICH THE YEARS DID SIGH"

This unexpected awakening of an old tenderness naturally prevented my
speaking any more of my mind to Sylvia that evening. No doubt the
reader may be a little astonished to hear that I had decided to offer
her marriage,--not taking my serious view of a fanciful vow. Doubtless
Sylvia was not entirely suitable to me, and to marry her was to be
faithless to that vision of the highest, that wonderful unknown woman
of the apocalyptic moorland, whose face Sylvia had not even momentarily
banished from my dreams, and whom, with an unaccountable certitude, I
still believed to be the woman God had destined for me; but, all things
considered, Sylvia was surely