ion by
no artifice, no rash indulgence, but by simply shunning solitary
interviews with Sylvia as carefully as the courtesy due his hostess
would allow. In walks and drives, and general conversation, he bore his
part, surprising and delighting those who knew him best by the genial
change which seemed to have softened his rugged nature. But the instant
the family group fell apart and Moor's devotion to his cousin left
Sylvia alone, Warwick was away into the wood or out upon the sea,
lingering there till some meal, some appointed pleasure, or the evening
lamp brought all together. Sylvia understood this, and loved him for it
even while she longed to have it otherwise. But Moor reproached him for
his desertion, doubly felt since the gentler acquirements made him
dearer to his friend. Hating all disguises, Warwick found it hard to
withhold the fact which was not his own to give, and sparing no blame to
himself, answered Moor's playful complaint with a sad sincerity that
freed him from all further pleadings.

"Geoffrey, I have a heavy heart which even you cannot heal. Leave it to
time, and let me come and go as of old, enjoying the social hour when I
may, flying to solitude when I must."

Much as Sylvia had longed to see these friends, she counted the hours of
their stay, for the presence of one was a daily disquieting, because
spirits would often flag, conversation fail, and an utter weariness
creep over her when she could least account for or yield to it. More
than once during that week she longed to lay her head on Faith's kind
bosom and ask help. Deep as was her husband's love it did not possess
the soothing power of a woman's sympathy, and though it cradled her as
tenderly as if she had been a child, Faith's compassion would have been
like motherly arms to fold and foster. But friendly as they soon became,
frank as was Faith's regard for Sylvia, earnest as was Sylvia's
affection for Faith, she never seemed to reach that deeper place where
she desired to be. Always when she thought she had found the innermost
that each of us seek for in our friend, she felt that Faith drew back,
and a reserve as delicate as inflexible barred her approach with chilly
gentleness. This seemed so foreign to Faith's nature that Sylvia
pondered and grieved over it till the belief came to her that this
woman, so truly excellent and loveworthy, did not desire to receive her
confidence, and sometimes a bitter fear assailed her that Warwick was