ve a stimulant to her unhappy love in watching its mimic
semblance through all phases of tragic suffering and sorrow, for she
would see no comedies, and Shakespeare's tragedies became her study.

This lasted for a time, then the reaction came. A black melancholy fell
upon her, and energy deserted soul and body. She found it a weariness to
get up in the morning and weariness to lie down at night. She no longer
cared even to seem cheerful, owned that she was spiritless, hoped she
should be ill, and did not care if she died to-morrow. When this dark
mood seemed about to become chronic she began to mend, for youth is
wonderfully recuperative, and the deepest wounds soon heal even against
the sufferer's will. A quiet apathy replaced the gloom, and she let the
tide drift her where it would, hoping nothing, expecting nothing, asking
nothing but that she need not suffer any more.

She lived fast; all processes with her were rapid; and the secret
experience of that winter taught her many things. She believed it had
only taught her to forget, for now the outcast love lay very still, and
no longer beat despairingly against the door of her heart, demanding to
be taken in from the cold. She fancied that neglect had killed it, and
that its grave was green with many tears. Alas for Sylvia! how could she
know that it had only sobbed itself to sleep, and would wake beautiful
and strong at the first sound of its master's voice.

Mark became eventful. In his fitful fashion he had painted a picture of
the Golden Wedding, from sketches taken at the time. Moor had suggested
and bespoken it, that the young artist might have a motive for finishing
it, because, though he excelled in scenes of that description, he
thought them beneath him, and tempted by more ambitious designs,
neglected his true branch of the art. In April it was finished, and at
his father's request Mark reluctantly sent it with his Clytemnestra to
the annual exhibition. One morning at breakfast Mr. Yule suddenly
laughed out behind his paper, and with a face of unmixed satisfaction
passed it to his son, pointing to a long critique upon the Exhibition.
Mark prepared himself to receive with becoming modesty the praises
lavished upon his great work, but was stricken with amazement to find
Clytemnestra disposed of in a single sentence, and the Golden Wedding
lauded in a long enthusiastic paragraph.

"What the deuce does the man mean!" he ejaculated, staring at his
father.

"H