s to fill with sudden tears. Moor could not
see his friend's face, but he saw Mark's, divined the indiscreet inquiry
hovering on his lips, and arrested it with a warning gesture.

A pause ensued, during which each person made some mental comment on the
last speech, and to several of the group that little moment was a
memorable one. Remembering the lost love Warwick had confessed to him,
Moor thought with friendliest regret--"Poor Adam, he finds it impossible
to forget." Reading the truth in the keen delight the instant brought
her, Sylvia cried out within herself, "Oh, Geoffrey, forgive me, for I
love him!" and Warwick whispered to that impetuous heart of his, "Be
still, we have ventured far enough."

Prue spoke first, very much disturbed by having her prejudices and
opinions opposed, and very anxious to prove herself in the right.

"Mark and Geoffrey look as if they agreed with Mr. Warwick in
his--excuse me if I say, dangerous ideas; but I fancy the personal
application of them would change their minds. Now, Mark, just look at
it; suppose some one of Jessie's lovers should discover an affinity for
her, and she for him, what would you do?"

"Shoot him or myself, or all three, and make a neat little tragedy of
it."

"There is no getting a serious answer from you, and I wonder I ever try.
Geoffrey, I put the case to you; if Sylvia should find she adored Julian
Haize, who fell sick when she was married, you know, and should inform
you of that agreeable fact some fine day, should you think it quite
reasonable and right to say, 'Go, my dear, I'm very sorry, but it can't
be helped.'"

The way in which Prue put the case made it impossible for her hearers
not to laugh. But Sylvia held her breath while waiting for her husband's
answer. He was standing behind her chair, and spoke with the smile still
on his lips, too confident to harbor even a passing fancy.

"Perhaps I ought to be generous enough to do so, but not being a Jaques,
with a convenient glacier to help me out of the predicament, I am afraid
I should be hard to manage. I love but few, and those few are my world;
so do not try me too hardly, Sylvia."

"I shall do my best, Geoffrey."

She dropped her shuttle as she spoke, and stooping to pick it up, down
swept the long curls over either cheek; thus, when she fell to work
again, nothing of her face was visible but a glimpse of forehead, black
lashes and faintly smiling mouth. Moor led the conversation to other