le been
confided. They were discreet from family pride, if from no tenderer
feeling; but the curious world outside of that small circle was full of
shrewd surmises, of keen eyes for discovering domestic breaches, and
shrill tongues for proclaiming them. Warwick escaped suspicion, being so
little known, so seldom seen; but for the usual nine days matrons and
venerable maids wagged their caps, lifted their hands, and sighed as
they sipped their dish of scandal and of tea--

"Poor young man! I always said how it would be, she was so peculiar. My
dear creature, haven't you heard that Mrs. Moor isn't happy with her
husband, and that he has gone abroad quite broken-hearted?"

Sylvia felt this deeply, but received it as her just punishment, and
bore herself so meekly that public opinion soon turned a somersault, and
the murmur changed to--

"Poor young thing! what could she expect? My dear, I have it from the
best authority, that Mr. Moor has made her miserable for a year, and now
left her broken-hearted." After that, the gossips took up some newer
tragedy, and left Mrs. Moor to mend her heart as best she could, a favor
very gratefully received.

As Hester Prynne seemed to see some trace of her own sin in every bosom,
by the glare of the Scarlet Letter burning on her own; so Sylvia, living
in the shadow of a household grief, found herself detecting various
phases of her own experience in others. She had joined that sad
sisterhood called disappointed women; a larger class than many deem it
to be, though there are few of us who have not seen members of it.
Unhappy wives; mistaken or forsaken lovers; meek souls, who make life a
long penance for the sins of others; gifted creatures kindled into
fitful brilliancy by some inward fire that consumes but cannot warm.
These are the women who fly to convents, write bitter books, sing songs
full of heartbreak, act splendidly the passion they have lost or never
won. Who smile, and try to lead brave uncomplaining lives, but whose
tragic eyes betray them, whose voices, however sweet or gay, contain an
undertone of hopelessness, whose faces sometimes startle one with an
expression which haunts the observer long after it is gone.

Undoubtedly Sylvia would have joined the melancholy chorus, and fallen
to lamenting that ever she was born, had she not possessed a purpose
that took her out of herself and proved her salvation. Faith's words
took root and blossomed. Intent on making her life a