ved how fast she was laying down the things of this world, and
making ready to take up those of the world to come. Her father was her
faithful shadow; bent and white-haired now, but growing young at heart
in spite of sorrow, for his daughter had in truth become the blessing of
his life. Mark and Jessie brought their offering of love in little
Sylvia's shape, and the innocent consoler did her sweet work by making
sunshine in a shady place. But Moor was all in all to Sylvia, and their
friendship proved an abiding strength, for sorrow made it very tender,
sincerity ennobled it, and the coming change sanctified it to them
both.

April came; and on her birthday, with a grateful heart, Moor gathered
the first snow-drops of the year. All day they stood beside her couch,
as fragile and as pale as she, and many eyes had filled as loving
fancies likened her to the slender, transparent vase, the very spirit of
a shape, and the white flowers that had blossomed beautifully through
the snow. When the evening lamp was lighted, she took the little posy in
her hand, and lay with her eyes upon it, listening to the book Moor
read, for this hour always soothed the unrest of the day. Very quiet was
the pleasant room, with no sounds in it but the soft flicker of the
fire, the rustle of Faith's needle, and the subdued music of the voice
that patiently went reading on, long after Sylvia's eyes had closed,
lest she should miss its murmur. For an hour she seemed to sleep, so
motionless, so colorless, that her father, always sitting at her side,
bent down at last to listen at her lips. The lips smiled, the eyes
unclosed, and she looked up at him, with an expression as tender as
tranquil.

"A long sleep and pleasant dreams that wake you smiling?" he asked.

"Beautiful and happy thoughts, father; let me tell you some of them. As
I lay here, I fell to thinking of my life, and at first it seemed the
sorrowfullest failure I had ever known. Whom had I made happy? What had
I done worth the doing? Where was the humble satisfaction that should
come hand in hand with death? At first I could find no answers to my
questions, and though my one and twenty years do not seem long to live,
I felt as if it would have been better for us all if I had died, a
new-born baby in my mother's arms."

"My child, say anything but that, because it is I who have made your
life a failure."

"Wait a little father, and you will see that it is a beautiful success.
I _have_