ly to
town and consulted the famous physician who has grown gray in the study
of disease."

"Did you go alone, Sylvia?"

"Yes, alone. I am braver than I used to be, and have learned never to
feel quite alone. I found a grave, stern-looking man; I told him that I
wished to know the entire truth whatever it might be, and that he need
not fear to tell me because I was prepared for it. He asked many
questions, thought a little, and was very slow to speak. Then I saw how
it would be, but urged him to set my mind at rest. His stern old face
grew very pitiful as he took my hand and answered gently--'My child, go
home and prepare to die.'"

"Good God, how cruel! Sylvia, how did you bear it?"

"At first the earth seemed to slip away from under me, and time to stand
still. Then I was myself again, and could listen steadily to all he
said. It was only this,--I had been born with a strong nature in a
feeble frame, had lived too fast, wasted health ignorantly, and was past
help."

"Could he do nothing for you?"

"Nothing but tell me how to husband my remaining strength, and make the
end easy by the care that would have kept me longer had I known this
sooner."

"And no one saw your danger; no one warned you of it; and I was away!"

"Father could not see it, for I looked well and tried to think I felt
so. Mark and Jessie were absorbed in baby Sylvia, and Prue was gone. You
might have seen and helped me, for you have the intuitions of a woman in
many things, but I could not send for you then because I could not give
you what you asked. Was it wrong to call you when I did, and try to make
the hard fact easier to bear by telling it myself?"

"Heaven bless you for it, Sylvia. It was truly generous and kind. I
never could have forgiven you had you denied me the happiness of seeing
you again, and you have robbed the truth of half its bitter pain by
telling it yourself."

A restful expression came into her face, and a sigh of satisfaction
proved how great was the relief of feeling that for once her heart had
prompted her aright. Moor let her rest a little, then asked with a look
more pathetic than his words--

"What am I to you now? Where is my home to be?"

"My friend forever, no more, no less; and your home is here with us
until I leave my father to your care. All this pain and separation were
in vain if we have not learned that love can neither be forced nor
feigned. While I endeavored to do so, God did not help me, and I