he ubiquitous grey which he saw at night was invaded by streams
of glorious crimson and blue that reached far up into the sky. He
gazed at the spectacle, and then once more at that house in which his
love was centred.

"Would I might be her guardian angel, to guide her in the right and
keep her from all harm! Sleep on, Sylvia. Sweet one, sleep. Yon
stars fade beside your eyes. Your thoughts and your soul are fairer
far than the east in this day's sunrise. I know what I have lost. Ah,
desolating knowledge! for I have read Sylvia's heart, and know I was
loved as truly as I loved. When Bearwarden and Cortlandt break her the
news--ah, God! will she live, and do they yet know I am dead?"

Again came that spasm to shed spirit tears, and had he not known it
impossible he would have thought his heart must break.

The birds twittered, and the light grew, but Ayrault lay with his face
upon the ground. Finally the spirit of unrest drove him on. He passed
the barred door of his own house, through which he had entered so
often. It was unchanged, but seemed deserted. Next, he went to the
water-front, where he had left his yacht. Invisibly and sadly he stood
upon her upper deck, and gazed at the levers, in response to his touch
on which the craft had cleft the waves, reversed, or turned like a
thing of life.

"'Twas a pretty toy," he mused, "and many hours of joy have I had as I
floated through life on board of her."

As he moped along he beheld two unkempt Italians having a piano-organ
and a violin. The music was not fine, but it touched a chord in
Ayrault's breast, for he had waltzed with Sylvia to that air, and it
made his heart ache.

"Oh, the acuteness of my distress," he cried, "the utter depth of my
sorrow! Can I have no peace in death, no oblivion in the grave? I am
reminded of my blighted, hopeless love in all kinds of unexpected ways,
by unforeseen trifles. Oh, would I might, indeed, die! May
obliteration be my deliverer!"

"Poor fellows," he continued, glancing at the Italians, for he
perceived that neither of the players was happy; the pianist was
avaricious, while the violinist's natural and habitual jealousy
destroyed his peace of mind.

"Unhappiness seems the common lot," thought Ayrault. "Earth cannot
give that joy for which we sigh. Poor fellows! though you rack my ears
and distress my heart, I cannot help you now."

CHAPTER XIII.

TH