not the only reader of her secret trouble.

All things have an end, and the last day came none too soon for one
dweller under that hospitable roof. Faith refused all entreaties to
stay, and looked somewhat anxiously at Warwick as Moor turned from
herself to him with the same urgency.

"Adam, you will stay? Promise me another week?"

"I never promise, Geoffrey."

Believing that, as no denial came, his request was granted, Moor gave
his whole attention to Faith, who was to leave them in an hour.

"Sylvia, while I help our cousin to select and fasten up the books and
prints she likes to take with her, will you run down into the garden and
fill your prettiest basket with our finest grapes? You will like that
better than fumbling with folds and string; and you know one's servants
should not perform these pleasant services for one's best friends."

Glad to be away, Sylvia ran through the long grape walk to its sunniest
nook, and standing outside the arch, began to lay the purple clusters in
her basket. Only a moment was she there alone; Warwick's shadow,
lengthened by the declining sun, soon fell black along the path. He did
not see her, nor seem intent on following her; he walked slowly, hat in
hand, so slowly that he was but midway down the leafy lane when Faith's
voice arrested him. She was in haste, as her hurried step and almost
breathless words betrayed; and losing not an instant, she cried before
they met--

"Adam, you will come with me? I cannot leave you here."

"Do you doubt me, Faith?"

"No; but loving women are so weak."

"So strong, you mean; men are weakest when they love."

"Adam, _will_ you come?"

"I will follow you; I shall speak with Geoffrey first."

"Must you tell him so soon?"

"I must."

Faith's hand had been on Warwick's arm; as he spoke the last words she
bent her head upon it for an instant, then without another word turned
and hurried back as rapidly as she had come, while Warwick stood where
she left him, motionless as if buried in some absorbing thought.

All had passed in a moment, a moment too short, too full of intense
surprise to leave Sylvia time for recollection and betrayal of her
presence. Half hidden and wholly unobserved she had seen the unwonted
agitation of Faith's countenance and manner, had heard Warwick's softly
spoken answers to those eager appeals, and with a great pang had
discovered that some tender confidence existed between these two of
which she had never