ever
thought to see from him, for when she stretched her hands to him with
that tender invitation, she saw the deep eyes fill and overflow. Then he
threw himself down before her, and for the first time in her short life
showed her that sad type of human suffering, a man weeping like a woman.

Warwick was one of those whose passions, as his virtues, were in unison
with the powerful body they inhabited, and in such a crisis as the
present but one of two reliefs were possible to him; either wrathful
denunciation, expostulation and despair, or the abandon of a child.
Against the former he had been struggling dumbly till Sylvia's words had
turned the tide, and too entirely natural to feel a touch of shame at
that which is not a weakness but a strength, too wise to reject so safe
an outlet for so dangerous a grief, he yielded to it, letting the
merciful magic of tears quench the fire, wash the first bitterness away,
and leave reproaches only writ in water. It was better so, and Sylvia
acknowledged it within herself as she sat mute and motionless, softly
touching the brown hair scattered on the moss, her poor consolation
silenced by the pathos of the sight, while through it all rose and fell
the fitful echo of the horn, in very truth "a sweet reminder not to
stray away and lose herself." An hour ago it would have been a welcome
sound, for peak after peak gave back the strain, and airy voices
whispered it until the faintest murmur died. But now she let it soar and
sigh half heard, for audible to her alone still came its sad
accompaniment of bitter human tears. To Warwick it was far more; for
music, the comforter, laid her balm on his sore heart as no mortal pity
could have done, and wrought the miracle which changed the friend who
seemed to have robbed him of his love to an unconscious Orpheus, who
subdued the savage and harmonized the man. Soon he was himself again,
for to those who harbor the strong virtues with patient zeal, no lasting
ill can come, no affliction can wholly crush, no temptation wholly
vanquish. He rose with eyes the clearer for their stormy rain, twice a
man for having dared to be a child again. Humbler and happier for the
knowledge that neither vain resentment nor unjust accusation had
defrauded of its dignity, the heavy hour that left him desolate but not
degraded.

"I _am_ comforted, Sylvia, rest assured of that. And now there is little
more to say, but one thing to do. I shall not see your husband yet,