and down the lobby. She put her arm through
mine, and made me walk with her.

"Elspie is in there," she said. "Stay here.
This is where the foot goes pattering up and
down at night. Is it true the story that Elspie
tells about it?"

"I cannot say," I said. "I'd rather not
speak of it. It is too painful."

"Elspie says," she continued, "that it is
when you are in trouble that your mother cannot
rest. I hear her up and down, up and
down, every night. Mattie! would it not be
an act of mercy to give that poor soul rest?"

"I don't know what you mean, Sylvia," I
said. "I tell you again, this is too painful to
be talked about."

"lf you were happy, she would rest,"
persisted Sylvia, not appearing to take the least
note of my replies. "I have been hearing a
story about you from your father; yes, he
wakened up and began telling me about it. It
is hard that the world should have gone so
crooked with us both, Mattie, but it might
come right still. While there is life there is
hope."

"Yes, Sylvia," I said, thinking she alluded
to the prospect of my father's recovery.

She put her arms round my neck and kissed
my face all over—my forehead and eyes, my
cheeks and lips.

"I am sorry I ever tormented you, Mattie,"
she said. "Will you let us be true friends?"

"I do not understand your humours, Sylvia,"
I said, "but I have no objection to be your
friend. I wish you nothing but good."

And here my story narrows itself down to
one keen point. A day arrived when two great
events came and clashed together: the day of
my father's death.

I had been sitting with him all the forenoon,
as usual, and he had been talking to me in a
manner that was quite new with him. He had
become very gentle and chastened. His mind
was quite clear, and he looked at me with love
in his poor eyes, held my hand, and called me
his "good child!" The change wrung my heart,
but it was very sweet. I did not remember
that these holy spells of peace come sometimes
before death, as if enough had been suffered,
and the tired body rested a little, while the soul
awaited the heavenly order for release.

In the afternoon I felt ill, over-excited, and
over-fatigued, and Miss Pollard having come
and taken my place, I went away at her desire
to rest awhile in the quiet of my own room.
Coming out of the darkened chamber to the
bright daylight on the lobby, I looked out of
the window and noticed what a clear brisk
frosty day it was. The wheels were plunging
on, as usual, with their sturdy song of work.
It was a superstition of mine that their sound
had different tones and meanings at different
times, and at this moment it struck me that
they were holding forth to the cold smiling sky
and the bracing air about how people can live
very well without sunshine if they have only
their liberty and a strong will. And I admitted
the hope that when my father should be quite
recovered he might help me to break my
engagement with Luke, and we two might go
away to some quiet corner of the world where
no one should know us, and we might spend
our lives together in peace.

I had just drawn my white curtains between
me and the world when my door opened, and,
starting up, I saw Sylvia come in. She was
equipped for out of doors, and looked splendidly
beautiful, all dressed in grey silk and black
velvet, with a swansdown ruff round her neck,
and some bright berries under the brim of her
bonnet.

"I am going for a drive with Luke, Mattie,"
said she, smoothing a wrinkle out of her glove
as she spoke, and clasping it round her wrist.

"Are you indeed?" I said, looking at her in
amazement.

"Yes," she said. "I thought I had better
tell you. Have you any objection?"

"No," said I, "certainly not, if you have
none yourself."

"Remember, I asked you," she said, "and
that you told me I might go." And then she
disappeared.

I have said before that I had grown so accustomed
to Sylvia's oddities that I could hardly be
surprised at anything she might say or do;
nevertheless, I wondered a good deal about this
new freak, and in wondering about it I fell
asleep, and slept soundly till the mill-bell,
ringing at six for the workpeople to go home,
wakened me. It was quite dark, and Miss
Pollard came in and stirred up my fire and
lighted my gas.

"Dinner is ready, my dear," she said; "but
Mr. Elphinstone has not come in, nor can I find
Miss Ashenhurst."

"Have they not come back yet?" I asked.

"Come back!" exclaimed Miss Pollard.

"Yes," said I. "Sylvia came in here before
I went to sleep, and told me she was going for
a drive with Luke."

"You must have dreamed it, my dear," said
Miss Pollard. "She could not do such a
thing."

"I don't think I dreamed it," said I.

We went down to the drawing-room and sat
by the fireside, waiting. Six o'clock was our
dinner-hour; Miss Pollard and I waited till
half-past seven, and still there was no news of
Sylvia and Luke. Then we dined together, and
when it grew later yet I begged Miss Pollard
to send away the maid who came with her cloak
and umbrella, and to remain with me all the
night.

Early in the evening it had come on wet and
windy, and towards midnight there was a
perfect hurricane battering about the windows.

"You may as well go to bed, my dear," said
Miss Pollard, when one o'clock had struck.
"They are not likely to return now. Where-
ever they are, they must stay under cover
tonight." And she looked very white and
horrified as she spoke.

But I could not go to bed, and we sat over