defection troubled her. Nor did
she believe her interference would do any good. For, to Sybil Berners
earnest nature, all things seemed earnest, and this vain and shallow
flirtation wore the aspect of a deep, impassioned attachment. And in her
forbearance she acted from instinct rather than from reason, for she
never even thought of interfering between these platonists. So,
outwardly at least, she was calm. But this calmness could not last. Her
heart was bleeding, burning, breaking! and its prisoned flood of fire
and blood must burst forth at length. The volcano seems quiet; but the
pent up lava in its bosom must at last give forth mutterings of its
impending irruption, and swiftly upon these mutterings must follow
flames and ruin!

It happened thus with Sybil.

One morning, when the weather was too threatening to permit any one to
indulge in an outdoor walk, it chanced that Lyon and Sybil Berners were
sitting together at a centre-table in the parlor--Lyon reading the
morning paper; Sybil _trying_ to read a new magazine--when Rosa
Blondelle, with her flowing, azure-hued robes and her floating golden
locks, and her beaming smiles, entered the room and seated herself at
the table, saying sweetly:

"My dear Mrs. Berners, is it to-morrow that you and I have arranged to
drive out and return the calls that were made upon us?"

"Yes, madam," politely replied Sybil.

"Then, dear Mr. Berners, I shall have to ask you to write a few
visiting-cards for me. I have not an engraved one in the world. But you
write such a beautiful hand, that your writing will look like
copper-plate. You will oblige me?" she inquired, smiling, and placing a
pack of blank cards before him.

"With the greatest pleasure," answered Lyon Berners, promptly putting
aside his paper.

Rosa turned to leave the room.

"Will you not remain with us?" courteously inquired Sybil.

"No, dear; much as I should like to do so," replied Rosa.

"But why?" inquired Lyon Berners, looking disappointed.

"Oh! because I have my dress to see about. We are far from all
fashionable modistes here; but I must try to do honor to madam's
masquerade for all that," laughed Rosa, as she passed gracefully out of
the room.

With a sigh that seemed to his sorrowing wife to betray his regret for
the beauty's departure, Lyon Berners drew the packet of blank cards
before him, scattered them in a loose heap on his left hand, and then
selecting one at a time, began to write. As he