only came himself, but
brought a close coach, thankful to dispose of one patient so
comfortably. Before dusk Mrs. Lawrence was snugly settled in Miss
Barry's best room, where a cheerful open-front stove made amends for a
grate, and the new surroundings served to take her mind from her late
apprehensions. Indeed, she felt so much better for the change, that she
insisted upon coming down to tea.

It was beneficial in many ways. They removed Irene again to her own
room, and used her mother's for various convenient purposes. Sylvie went
back and forth, and shared the day-watching, beside entertaining Mrs.
Lawrence. The two dropped insensibly into their olden positions. Sylvie
listened patiently to the death, the loss of fortune, the changes, which
Mrs. Lawrence dwelt upon with the exaggerating vividness of a nature
completely engrossed with its own sorrows.

Dr. Maverick had to come every day. Mrs. Lawrence had arrived at that
stage when a woman depends upon the doctor as a sort of bulletin for her
own health. Fred, too, must visit his mother frequently; but at first he
chose the hours he knew Sylvie would be with Irene.

Dr. Maverick used to watch Sylvie Barry with an interest and admiration
that grew upon him. Her tact was something marvellous, born of a certain
exquisite harmony and almost divine unselfishness. But of this last she
appeared serenely unconscious. I think, indeed, that she was. A higher
love and faith had interpenetrated her soul, her very being. Instead of
agonizing introspections and lightning flashes to the inward depths of
her nature, she seemed to live continually on the outside of herself,
radiating warmth and light as the sun. Her patience was of a rare, fine
quality, born of health, and spirits not easily wearied.

It would have been quite impossible for any two people to go through
such a strain of feeling, and not be drawn together in love and
sympathy, or friendship. With Fred and Sylvie it was unconsciously a
little of all. If he had gone back with the old love, even exalted and
refined, he would surely have blundered again. But now she was
another's, sacred in his eyes. And though in his blind pride he had once
thought the greatest favor he could do her would be to save her from any
such _mesalliance_, he recognized now that Jack Darcy was immeasurably
above him in all the qualities that went to make up pure manhood. Even
in his work: Jack's ambition was not for himself, but a cause; and