The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1891-05-23
IcoxrINrED FROM FIRST pAeE.]
IN THE FOLKS WOOD.

Something, some sickening apprehension,
closed up my heart like spring. Instant
conviction that here was mystery mys-
terry connected in some way with SYLVIA
seized me, and even before the thought was
formulated in my mind | had slipped down
the stairs and out of the door, and was in
pursuit of the dark figure | had recognized.
Instinct. rather than any defined plan,
guided me through the woods-ghostly and
eerie now to my newly awakened apprc-
tensions of the mystery they must conceal
and past the mere, where the moon MIR
rored itself in the placid depths. As L
paused at its side, the figure | was IN pur-
suit of stood for a moment on its further
edge. as if peering into its waters for some
thing: then turned, and kept on its way
into The deeper recesses of the wood.
| circed the mere and followed the we'll
remembered windings, until | was nearing
the glade, where my first love tale had been
told few hours earlier.
| was close upon it; | could even, through
the trees, catch CLEANS of the moonlight
sleeping on its sward, when from 1t came
the sound of lightly trilled song, shatter
inc with thrilling horror the silence of
the night. and freezing the blood in my
veins
| took few steps forward, and looked
upon the glade, and upon sight that will
always haunt my dreams.
The moons rays, as she rode high in the
heavens, filled the little space with silvery
radiance, wherein, with floating hair and
waving hands, with scraps of weired song
intermingled with elm laughter, white
ROBBED figure swayed in kind Of rhythmic
dance. as if to music unheard by mortal
ears.
stood, stiff stricken with the sense of
unintelligible calamity, and the hooded
figure | had followed stole out from the
opposite side of the glade, and approached
the dancer.
Sylvia, my darling - she pleaded, in
tones of agonized and implOring love,
';come home with me; come home with
Aunt Rachel, dear
The girl laughed tinkling, unearthly
little laugh.
s'Thcy know now she said. I've
told them III 20 back now! She
waved her hands once-twice. Good
night! good night" she cried, and my
strained ears caught faint, delusive echoes,
as of elfn voices in answer.
Miss Denisons arm was wound firmly
round the slim white figure as they crossed
the little space. Her eyes fell on me
where | stood among the trees, and there
came into her face a look of hopeless
anguish that hurts me to think of even
now. There was something in her look,
and in the way in which she drew her
charge away from my direction, that told
me she forbade discovery Of my presence.
[ aited until the sound of retreating foot
steps was lost in the distance, and then
followed in their track to the house, and
regained my room, prey to agitating and
torturing thoughts | will not recall. Sleep
was out of the question. | sat and watch
ed the early summer dawn, thinking not
at all, but letting the waves of feeling 60
over my head until | grew restless, and
felt | must 30 out-not into that fatal
wood, but somewhere into the open air.
Once more on that strange night pass
ed out of the hall door, and finding my
way into the struggling kitchen garden at
the back of the house, and away from the
sight of the Folks Wood, | strolled up
and down its grass grown paths in vain
endeayor to think cOnsecutiyely of the
nights events.
Presently the latch of the gate clicked,
and | saw Miss Denison's tall figure APP
preaching.
No smile greeted me now. On her
worn face could be read despairing sad
ness that made no effort at concealment.
\ dull, halfunderstood resentment against
her had smouldered in my breast during
the hours of my night watch; glimpses of
something treacherous had caught here,
there, on my mental consciousness, to lose
force again for want of knowledge; but, at
sight of her face, am glad to remember
that, even in my own misery, | found pity
for hers.
She came close to me, but did not
speak.
How is-she?" stammered at last
.'She is asleep she said, in dull, dead
sounding voice "0ld Martha is with her.
have come to say few words to you be-
fore you 90. Since you have seen my
miserable secret with your own eyes-there
is little to say. don't ask you to forgive
me. | have no defence to make. 1t is
true-I would have sacrificed you-or any
one-for her good. plotted and planned
for it; that was my only reason for wish
ing for boarder If you had proved I'M
worthy, | should have kept her from you
and looked for another-that's all. =
at was little hard on me, | said, in
voice l could not keep quite steady.
Her face worked passionately.
at was cruel, it was nhuman, she cried
"Only, love her so-only believed
hoped at least-that to know herself loved
would awaken her own soul. That this
this folly-ah, let me face it at last this
delusion-this madness would pass away
and | might see her happy wife and
mother My Sylvia-my beautiful Sylvia.
Her voice broke with that pitiful cry
and the tears courSed down her thin cheeks
I found some manliness then, and, tax
ing her hand, drew her to garden seat.
Miss Denison, said quietly, "it is moi
who should quarrel with you for YOU
love for Sylvia, even though it has faller
hardly on me. forgive you freely anC
fully for my share of the trouble"
She thanked me brokenly, and presently
in a calm tone, asked me to listen to the
whole story, wherein might, perhaps, fine
some sort of excuse for her sin against me
II had younger brother-an only one,
she began. He was Sylvias father. Oh
my poor Laurie What years of misery
seem to have gone by since you were my
darling and my joy. But that's no matter
Well, this brother was my father pride anC
and delight was nothing to him in com
parison. Laurie was to redeem our faller
fortunes; Laurie was to win every prize il
life. Among others, his handsome fac
was to win the heiress whose money wa
sadly needed to repair our decay. | neec