Year: 1874

| blush-rose--as that impractical young
artist had called her in the foolish, by-gone
time? All, but 1ods it wholly by-goneY
| Could IL be that all this while Sylvia had
kept in her heart that her silence had not
meant Indifference? The pressure Of
Sylvia's fingers recalled him from his
reverie; hesitatingly, in this new fear he
told his news.


1t was not such as would admit of much
preparation; simply that Ray Croydon
was gone-why, or where, no one knew or
could discover; there was the bare fact,
and nothing beyond.


Sylvia heard 1t with a calmness that,
but little before, would have satisfied
her father; but now an anxiety had arisen
in his mind which would have its way.
By.and by he returned to the subject.


"Sylvia," he said, abruptly, "it is more
than two years since-since all that hap
pened."


Sylvia bowed her head, but made no
other answer.


"Two years is long time," continued
her father, especially at your age. My
child, cannot be with you always. If |
could know that there was some one to
take my place when | am gone" Still



"You know whom l mean. Sylvia, you
know that John Hastings wants you for
his wife, and that l would gladly give you
to him; for, apart from his fortune and
position, he is all that could desire for
your husband"


"Do not ask me, father!" cried Sylvia,
breaking, in a moment from that deceit
full calm. "If Ray Croydon is dead,
shall never have any husband in this
worldw


"And-if he is false ?" said her father.


Sylvia did not answer for On instant.


"rhen l shall never have one-any-
where" she said at length, slowly, and
there was something in her face that
silenced the words her father had been
about to speak.


There was a prophecy, it seemed, in
Colonel Darchester's speech. 1t was not
very long after this that he fell i'll, and,
going from worse to worse, soon both
knew that in little while Sylvia would
be all alone-that he would never rise
from his sick bed again. 1t was almost
like her own death sentence, for these
two had ever had such a love for each
other as nothing could come between.
Now that their hours together were num-
bered, she would not resign one of them
night and day tending him with that
quieting calm which a breaking heart
knows how to counterfeit for loves sake.
But one midnight, when he seemed Sleep
ing, and there was nothing but the feeble
glimmer of the watch-lamp to see the
silent tears kept back from the daylight,
lest they should trouble him, she saw his
eyes open and fix on her face.


"Don't cry like that, child" he said,
feebly; "you make it harder for mere
membering the harm have done you"


Sylvia looked at him anxiously, fearing
lest his mind was beginning to wander


"No," he said, answering her look. at
is on my conscience-Sylvia, Ray never
wrote to you because l made him prom
ise-"


"Fatherl" cried Silvia, springing up
with sudden, sharp wall as of intofer-
able pain; then, seeing her agitation re-
fiected in the sick mans face, she forced
herself into quiet, and, sitting down by
him. took his hand and laid it against
her cheek with fond, soothing gesture.
He gave an uneasy sigh, and resumed
after little:


"l put him on his honor to hold no
communication with you till he could
show himself prepared to meet my con-
ditions. You were such a child Il
thought you would forget him and do
better wanted you to have your chance,
Sylvia" he added, almost pleadingly.


"Poor fatherl you did it for the best"
said Sylvia, softly stroking the wasted
hand in hers.


"God knows but it was ill done, Syl-
via," and he sighed again restlessly.


Ill done, truly! Sylvia's heart could
not but echo it when, little later, Colonel
Dorchester lay in his grave, and she was
all alone. Her father was gone, and Ray
was gone, whom he might have left a
strong stay for her desolation, but whom
he had himself taken from her. Yet Syl.
via cast no reproach on his memory, not
even in that trying hour when she took
from the place he had indicated the lit
tie bundle of letters, with their unbroken
seals, Just as she had given them to him.
She opened one of them, but as her eye
by chance fell on the words, 81 will wait
for you, Ray, all my life, if need be-" she
closed 1t again hastily; she could not
bear to recall all that might have been
hers, and never be now; she thought,
with sudden, passionate yearning
for death, that she was barely
twenty, and that her lifetime's waiting
might be very long one; she looked
shudderingly along the whole blank
stretch of years, with no love to shorten
them.


But there was latent strength in Syl-
Was softness that forbade her to lie down
and die. The first intolerable anguish
over, she took up her cross again and
faced the weary road, neither with de-
fiance nor despair, but with that quiet
patience which grows with the burden.


Withal, it was doubtless well for her
that other cares came to occupy her.
Colonel Darchester's pension ceased with
his death, and he could leave his daughter
little beside the tiny house, with its strip
of garden that had been his special care.
Sylvia could not live on roses and dew;
she must bestir herself to satisfy the un.
sympathetic body, which will not resign
one of its prosaic wants, however the
soul may hunger and faint. Fortunately,
in her case, the wants were of the sim
plest, and provided for without much
difficulty.


SO two more years slipped by. Sylvia
was twenty-five, girl still, yet so far re
moved from all girlish things as if
score had been added to her age. Not
that she had grown old, for, if the bloom
of girlhood was gone, its freshness and
soltness remained And, indeed, she had
gained more than she had lost, for the
lovely soul revealed itself more clearly
through the transparent covering, and re
placed prettiness with beauty, No, she
had not grown old, but she had grown
estranged; in the world, but not of it, she
lived in a wonderful land all her own,
not quite past nor future, but the might
have-been transformed into an unreal yet
most real present. .tt-..


In all this time, no tidings of Ray,
Dead OF alive, he had passed utterly out
of the world that had known him. The
pictures he had turned to the wall with
such reluctant haste gathered dust undis-
turbed, and the colors faded gradually
out of the canvas, Just as his image faded
out of the memory of all save one.
That one forgot neither the artist nor his
creations, 1t was so she loved best to
think of him, only successful, famous,
crowned with the laurels she fondly be-
lieved his right She could never pass
the place where he had worked without