worked together as a strong stimulant. Perhaps, too,
he had a not unworthy desire to show Sylvie Barry that the man who had
loved her was not utterly unworthy or incapable.

They had drifted together again in the ordinary purposes of life, which,
after all, occur much more frequently than any grand or overwhelming
shock. She took up the friendly, half-sisterly way, pleased with the
instinctive deference he paid her. He understood that it would be quite
useless to aspire to any regard of hers: that was all done with in the
past. She could afford to evince an interest in his plans, since Irene
cared not, and to his mother they were so much Greek, a subtle flavor
that she admitted was the proper thing, but could not understand,--did
not care to trouble herself, in fact.

So these two young people, working in a common bond of sympathy,
insensibly strengthened the regard that had grown with them from
childhood. Fred gained sufficient courage to discuss some plans with
Sylvie: she brought out her easel, as I have said, and accepted from him
friendly criticisms. The difference between their work was soon
manifest,--he had an earnest purpose, with breadth and scope: she had
none. How had they so queerly changed places? she asked herself. Why
were not her talents made of some avail, instead of this puerile
pottering to please one's self?

She began to wonder--dangerously fascinating employment to a woman--if
he had ever cared for her. There seemed an adamantine wall built up
around him, and yet the fruit in the inner garden was more rarely sweet
than she had ever dreamed it could be. She could not know that the
passion for her he had put away with such despairing hands, was
blossoming all the sweeter, and bearing more exquisite fruit in other
directions. She saw the lovely tenderness toward his mother, the
unwearying patience with Irene, the fearless, animating ambition that
seemed to have set his aesthetic desires to a steady, comprehensive
strain of music, to which he was keeping invisible step, but which
thrilled and roused every fibre.

All this he had done without any assistance from her, she thought, blind
little girl; as if the kinship of a true passion could not reach from
the life that went before to that which was to come afterward! _She_ had
not inspired his genius, but stern necessity; it had been no longing or
desire to win _her_, but the material support of his mother and sister.
She began to feel curiously jea