ch as I seem to have frightened you?"

"I have murdered sleep. What did I do? what did I say?" she asked,
trembling and shrinking as she dropped into her chair.

Hoping to quiet her, he took his place on the footstool, and told her
what had passed. At first, she listened with a divided mind, for so
strongly was she still impressed with the vividness of the dream, she
half expected Warwick to rise like Banquo, and claim the seat that a
single occupancy seemed to have made his own. An expression of intense
relief replaced that of fear, when she had heard all, and she composed
herself with the knowledge that her secret was still hers. For, dreary
bosom-guest as it was, she had not yet resolved to end her trial.

"What set you walking, Sylvia?"

"I recollect hearing the clock strike one, and thinking I would come
down to see what you were doing so late, but must have dropped off and
carried out my design asleep. You see I put on wrapper and slippers as I
always do, when I take nocturnal rambles awake. How pleasant the fire
feels, and how cosy you look here; no wonder you like to stay and enjoy
it."

She leaned forward warming her hands in unconscious imitation of Adam,
on the night which she had been recalling before she slept. Moor watched
her with increasing disquiet; for never had he seen her in a mood like
this. She evaded his question, she averted her eyes, she half hid her
face, and with a gesture that of late had grown habitual, seemed to try
to hide her heart. Often had she baffled him, sometimes grieved him, but
never before showed that she feared him. This wounded both his love and
pride, and this fixed his resolution, to wring from her an explanation
of the changes which had passed over her within those winter months,
for they had been many and mysterious. As if she feared silence, Sylvia
soon spoke again.

"Why are you up so late? This is not the first time I have seen your
lamp burning when I woke. What are you studying so deeply?"

"My wife."

Leaning on the arm of her chair he looked up wistfully, tenderly, as if
inviting confidence, sueing for affection. The words, the look, smote
Sylvia to the heart, and but for the thought, "I have not tried long
enough," she would have uttered the confession that leaped to her lips.
Once spoken, it would be too late for secret effort or success, and this
man's happiest hopes would vanish in a breath. Knowing that his nature
was almost as sensitively fastidious as