riendships between men and
women without falling into this everlasting sea of love?"

Mr. Yule was laughing quietly under cover of the darkness, but composed
himself to answer gravely--

"Yes, for some of the most beautiful and famous friendships have been
such, and I see no reason why there may not be again. Look about,
Sylvia, make yourself happy; and, whether you find friend or lover,
remember there is always the old Papa glad to do his best for you in
both capacities."

Sylvia's hand crept to her father's shoulder, and her voice was full of
daughterly affection, as she said--

"I'll have no lover but 'the old Papa' for a long while yet. But I will
look about, and if I am fortunate enough to find and good enough to keep
the person I want, I shall be very happy; for, father, I really think I
need a friend."

Here Mark called his sister in to sing to them, a demand that would have
been refused but for a promise to Prue to behave her best as an
atonement for past pranks. Stepping in she sat down and gave Moor
another surprise, as from her slender throat there came a voice whose
power and pathos made a tragedy of the simple ballad she was singing.

"Why did you choose that plaintive thing, all about love, despair, and
death? It quite breaks one's heart to hear it," said Prue, pausing in a
mental estimate of her morning's shopping.

"It came into my head, and so I sung it. Now I'll try another, for I am
bound to please you--if I can." And she broke out again with an airy
melody as jubilant as if a lark had mistaken moonlight for the dawn and
soared skyward, singing as it went. So blithe and beautiful were both
voice and song they caused a sigh of pleasure, a sensation of keen
delight in the listener, and seemed to gift the singer with an
unsuspected charm. As she ended Sylvia turned about, and seeing the
satisfaction of their guest in his face, prevented him from expressing
it in words by saying, in her frank way--

"Never mind the compliments. I know my voice is good, for that you may
thank nature; that it is well trained, for that praise Herr Pedalsturm;
and that you have heard it at all, you owe to my desire to atone for
certain trespasses of yesterday and to-day, because I seldom sing before
strangers."

"Allow me to offer my hearty thanks to Nature, Pedalsturm, and
Penitence, and also to hope that in time I may be regarded, not as a
stranger, but a neighbor and a friend."

Something in the gentle emphasi