was only one thing I cared for, and you denied
it to me, and there is nothing left in the world
that can cause me one touch of regret. As for
affection, I give as much as I have received,
and that is fair enough."

She had picked up a ball of wool that Miss
Pollard had left behind her on the floor, and
was tossing it and catching it, like a child at
play, while she tripped these speeches lightly
off her tongue, only the gleam of her eye as it
followed the ball in the air and a sort of grating
strain in her voice telling that all she said was
not meant for an extravagant joke.

And this was Mark Hatteraick's wife. A
brave soldier, who had fought well, lived purely,
ripened into such a man as any heart could
worship, was to end by having a woman like
this sitting by his fireside. Pity for him made
me savage.

"You had better change your mind," I said,
"before you wreck a good man's happiness."

"Ha! Mattie, has he found a champion at
last?" she said; and then she rose from her
chair with a yawn. "I wonder," she said, "if
all our lives long you and I will be such friends
as we are to-night ?"

"God forbid!" I said, "for the sake of
Christian charity."

"You speak pretty plainly," she said, "con-
sidering I am a guest in your house."

"You make me forget where I am, and who
I am," I said, trembling so that I could hardly
speak or stand.

"Oh, never mind!" said Sylvia, carelessly, as
she took her candle. "What a night it is!"
she went on, as a dash of rain came across the
window. "Luke will be pretty well drenched,
wherever he is. He might as well have been
sitting there by the fire, preventing, by his
presence, our amiable conversation. Good
night!" she added, pleasantly, and went away
with as light a step as if she had already
forgotten every word that had passed
between us.

Though I had asked Sylvia to be my guest
for her own convenience, my time was so occupied
by my father that I could pay her but
little attention. She was left much to her own
resources, and passed her days in any way she
pleased. She shopped in Streamstown with
Miss Pollard, and received parcels from London.
She sewed a little at muslins and laces, but a
dreary idleness engrossed her more than
anything else. She seemed to dread loneliness, and
would beg of Miss Pollard to bring her work
and sit with her; or boldly walk into the
nursery to bestow her company on Elspie. She
sometimes even crept into my father's sick-
room and sat silently behind the curtains.
More than once she heard things thus, which I
had rather she had not heard, rambling regrets
and self-accusations from the poor sufferer, in
which my mother's name and mine were
constantly mentioned, eager recounting of his gains
and plans, allusions to the time when ruin had
so nearly come upon him, and Luke Elphinstone
had saved him. I did not know whether
Sylvia listened to, or minded, these things.
Sometimes I thought she heard none of them.

Mark appeared at the Mill-house
occasionally—very seldom, I thought; but Sylvia
seemed to think he came often enough, and,
indeed, judging by the shortness of his visits, and
Sylvia's frame of mind after they were over, one
would be inclined to think these two could have
little that was agreeable to talk about. Her
manner and temper grew worse and worse.
When Luke and she and I met at table, she
was gay enough, but there was a harshness in
her gaiety that made it painful. Only for stray
little gleams of kindliness that sometimes shone
out of her still, I should have thought her
nature had undergone a thorough change.

One day I came down the stairs and hall
when Mark was just descending the steps
outside. I had not seen him for a long time, but
he merely bowed and raised his hat; he did not
turn back to speak to me. I felt the colour rush
over my face, perhaps for the coldness, perhaps
for the slight, perhaps for the sudden memory
of what had been, and what might have been.
While I stood gazing blankly through the doorway
into the copper-beech tree, Sylvia came
forward from somewhere and stood beside me.

"He is generous and honourable, but not
changeable," she said abruptly, with a touch of
her old softness. "It was all my doing. I was
determined to do it, from a crazy motive of my
own, and I did it. Never blame him. It was
all my fault—all of it, at least, that was not
yours. Blame yourself most. If I had a lover
so true, I would go through fire and water to
cleave to him."

And then she walked away into the drawing-
room and shut the door, without waiting for my
answer.

For some time after Sylvia's return to us,
Luke went out regularly every night after tea,
and spent the remainder of the evening in his
counting-house at the mills. I do not know
when he first began to give up this habit, nor
do I remember even thinking much about how
Sylvia and he got on during the long evenings
together; but I recollect that it was just about
the time my father got a relapse, and occupied
more fully than ever all my time and thoughts,
that Sylvia left off coming tapping to the doors
for admittance, and begging to be allowed to
bestow her company upon some one.

For about a fortnight I saw very little of her,
and then I remember meeting her on the lobby
one evening just as I was leaving my father's
room.

"Let me go in," she said.

"My father is asleep," I said, holding the
door.

"Let me in," she repeated, "or I shall go
mad."

I was too much accustomed to her oddities
to heed this, but I allowed her to go into the
room and sit to watch, while I went down-stairs
to speak to an old servant who had come a long
way to see me. I was almost an hour absent,
and when I came back I found her pacing up