I spoke at last, and told my story,
passionately, stormily. I could not stop myself,
and yet while I was speaking I knew that it
would have been better I had kept silent.
Where is the use of saying that which can only
be said ill? I think Mrs. Hatteraick felt this
as my words rang about her ears. I think, by
the failing of her voice and the whitening of her
cheek, that she did. Sympathy is but the
aggravation of some sorrows when hope is a
dead letter. Silence had been best for me.

                       CHAPTER XII.

My father continued to get better, and Sylvia
returned to the Mill-house. I knew that she
had no home to receive her, and I wrote,
asking her to come to us before her marriage, for
as long a time as might suit her. In the
beginning of November she came.

Mark drove her over, one wet evening. I
stood at the open hall door to welcome her. I
had tasked myself to do everything kind. Mark
would not come in, though he came up the
steps, carrying Sylvia's cloak. He must return
to Eldergowan at once, he said, and neither I
nor Sylvia pressed him to remain. He was very
straight, and stern, and soldierly, as he walked
up the steps, and the idea passed across my
mind that this was how he must have looked
going to battle. I kept my eyes on Sylvia as I
shook hands with him, and I said it was a very
wet evening indeed, and after he had driven
away I stood a minute on the threshold looking
out at the drifting rain, and wondering, with a
sort of frantic fear, if I should always feel like
this, all through my life.

At this moment, Luke came round the house
talking to a farm-servant about the cattle
plague which had made some appearance in the
neighbourhood.

"Stamp it out!" I heard Luke saying in a
high voice. "The only thing to be done is to
stamp it out."

The words came to me suddenly on the wind
like a sort of wild reply to my wondering, and
I took them home and made my own of them.

"Stamp it out!" I cried, starting out of my
sleep that night. "Stamp it out!" I
whispered, clenching my hand under my apron, when
I saw a photograph on Sylvia's dressing-table.
"There is nothing to be done but to stamp it
out!" I murmured, when I happened on a dead
flower pinned in the bosom of one of my muslin
gowns, and dropped it deep into the heart of
the fire.

I wonder how Sylvia felt coming back that
evening. She looked battered with the wind
and rain, and very worn and weary, as she stood
in her wrappings in the hall and looked around
her. I dare say everything she glanced upon
had its own tale to tell her, in the way that
still life has got, of restoring to you
unexpectedly with interest whatever you endowed it
with in the hey-day of your sorrow or delight.
Her face was thinner and sharper, and her eyes
had an uneasy look. I knew what she had
done, and I guessed what she suffered. I ought
to have pitied her.

There were no sweet words nor caresses
between us. "Thank you, Mattie, for this
kindness," she said, in a graceless sort of way, and
went up to her own room. Her reception was
dismal enough, though I did wish it had
been otherwise. I had done nothing to make
the house less dull than was its wont. The
gilding seemed to have got rubbed off my
finger-tips. What they touched they left as
sombre as they had found—and this little loss
had a pain of its own, for a woman loves the
charm that her fancy sheds here and there in
her home, and when her household magic leaves
her, she knows it for a woful sign that her life
has gone awry.

I had asked Miss Pollard to stay with me
that evening, so that we three, Luke, Sylvia,
and I, might not have to sit at table alone. She
left early, however, and soon after she went
away I was summoned up-stairs to my father's
room. An hour passed, and I could not help
wondering how Sylvia and Luke had spent it
tête-à-tête. At the end of that time I heard the
drawing-room door open, and the hall door bang
violently, notwithstanding it had come on a
furiously wet and windy night. When I went
down to the drawing-room half an hour later,
Sylvia was sitting alone, bent over the fire, her
face flushed and tear-stained. I think I came
upon her unawares, for I had of late got the
habit of moving noiselessly; and she seemed ill-
pleased to see me. She gave me such a wild
angry look that I had almost turned and left the
room to her without a word, but it came across
my mind that the estrangement between us
would grow too bitter to be endurable if I did
so. I went up and put my hand upon her, and
said, "What is the matter, Sylvia?" And I
tried to put all the softness that I could into
my voice.

"Matter?" she said, laughing; "why, prosperity
is turning my head a little, I think. Luke
has been congratulating me on my wonderful
good fortune, and I have been sitting here since,
reflecting that I ought to be a little distracted
by delight. Think of it, Mattie! I came here
a poor, penniless, friendless creature, with only
a few gay gowns between me and beggary, and,
lo and behold! instead of having to go back
into the world to seek for a roof to cover my
head, I am about to be raised to the rank of
wife of one of the noblest gentlemen God ever
made! This is what people's congratulations
tell me every day, and if I believe firmly in my
own bliss, it is no wonder I go a little mad
thinking about it sometimes when I am left
alone!"

"Sylvia," said I, "I think if you have no
feeling of respect or affection for that noble
gentleman you have mentioned, you ought at
least to feign a little. It would be more for
your own dignity, never to speak of his
honour."

"Dignity!" she said; "do you think I care
any more either for myself or my dignity? There