rug at her feet,
resting her cheek against the elder woman's knees, nothing was said
for a long time--a time of length sufficient to commit a memory to its
grave, lay it away decently and in quiet befitting.

Sore doubt assailed Grace Ferrall, guiltily aware that once again
she had meddled; and in the calm tenor of her own placid, marital
satisfaction, looking backward along the pleasant path she had trodden
with its little monuments to love at decent intervals amid the agreeable
monotony of content, her heart and conscience misgave her lest she
had counselled this young girl wrongly, committing her to the arid
lovelessness which she herself had never known.

Leaning there, her fingers lingering in light caress on Sylvia's bright
hair, for every doubt she brought up argument, to every sentimental
wavering within her heart she opposed the chilling reason of common
sense. Destruction to happiness lay in Sylvia's yielding to her
caprice for Siward. There was other happiness in the world besides the
non-essential one of love. That must be Sylvia's portion. And after
all--and after all, love was a matter of degree; and it was well for
Sylvia that she had the malady so lightly--well for her that it had
advanced so little, lest she suspect what its crowning miracles might be
and fall sick of a passion for what she had forever lost.

For a week or more the snow continued; colder, gloomier weather set in,
and the impending menace of Ash Wednesday redoubled the social pace,
culminating in the Westervelt ball on the eve of the forty days.
And Sylvia had not yet seen Siward or spoken to him again across the
wilderness of streets and men.

In the first relaxation of Lent she had instinctively welcomed an
opportunity for spiritual consolation and a chance to take her spiritual
bearings; not because of bodily fatigue--for in the splendour of her
youthful vigour she did not know what that meant.

Saint Berold was a pretty good saint, and his church was patronised by
Major Belwether's household. The major liked two things high: his game
and his church. Sylvia cared for neither, but had become habituated to
both the odours of sanctity and of pheasants; so to Saint Berold's she
went in cure of her soul. Besides, she was fond of Father Curtis, who,
if he were every inch a priest, was also every foot of his six feet a
man--simple, good, and brave.

However, she found little opportunity, save at her brief confession, for
a word wit