I had a question to settle with myself and went to find my best
counsellors in the wood. Often when I am harassed by some perplexity or
doubt to which I can find no wise or welcome answer, I walk myself into
a belief that it will come; then it appears. I stoop to break a handsome
flower, to pick up a cone, or watch some little creature happier than I,
and there lies my answer, like a good luck penny, ready to my hand."

"Faith has gone, but Geoffrey hopes to keep you for another week," said
Sylvia, ignoring the unsafe topic.

"Shall he have his wish?"

"Faith expects you to follow her."

"And you think I ought?"

"I think you will."

"When does the next boat leave?"

"An hour hence."

"I'll wait for it here. Did I wake you coming in?"

"I was not asleep; only lazy, warm, and quiet."

"And deadly tired;--dear soul, how can it be otherwise, leading the life
you lead."

There was such compassion in his voice, such affection in his eye, such
fostering kindliness in the touch of the hand he laid upon her own, that
Sylvia cried within herself,--"Oh, if Geoffrey would only come!" and
hoping for that help to save her from herself, she hastily replied--

"You are mistaken, Adam,--my life is easier than I deserve,--my husband
makes me very--"

"Miserable,--the truth to me, Sylvia."

Warwick rose as he spoke, closed the door and came back wearing an
expression which caused her to start up with a gesture of entreaty--

"No no, I will not hear you! Adam, you must not speak!"

He paused opposite her, leaving a little space between them, which he
did not cross through all that followed, and with that look, inflexible
yet pitiful, he answered steadily--

"I _must_ speak and you _will_ hear me. But understand me, Sylvia, I
desire and design no French sentiment nor sin like that we heard of, and
what I say now I would say if Geoffrey stood between us. I have settled
this point after long thought and the heartiest prayers I ever prayed;
and much as I have at stake, I speak more for your sake than my own.
Therefore do not entreat nor delay, but listen and let me show you the
wrong you are doing yourself, your husband, and your friend."

"Does Faith know all the past? does she desire you to do this that her
happiness may be secure?" demanded Sylvia.

"Faith is no more to me, nor I to Faith, than the friendliest regard can
make us. She suspected that I loved you long ago; she now believes that
you love me; she pities