se even than was
absolutely necessary. Still, how strangely I seemed to hear every
sound. A hansom passing--no, a hansom drawing up at our house. I went
as far from the window as possible. I wedged myself up between the
sofa and the wall, and I shut my eyes firmly. Surely there were
unaccustomed sounds about, talking and laughing, as if something
pleasant had happened. Presently heavy footsteps came bounding up,
two steps at a time. Oh! should I have the courage not to answer if
it should be Jack?

But it was not. Kitty's voice shouted--

"Sybil, Sybil, come down. Here's----"

"Kitty, be quiet," I called out furiously. "If you do not hold your
tongue, if you do not go away from the door immediately, I'll--I'll
shoot you."

She went away, and I heard her telling them downstairs that she
believed Sybil had gone mad.

I waited a little longer,--then I stole to the window.

Surely Juliet would not be spoiled by the sight of a visitor leaving
the house. But there was no one leaving. Indeed, I saw the prospect
of a fresh arrival--Isabel Chisholm was coming up the street in a
brand new costume and hat to match. Her fringe was curled to
perfection. A tiny veil was arranged coquettishly just above her
nose. Flesh and blood could not stand this. Downstairs I darted,
without even waiting for a look in the glass. Into the drawing-room I
bounced, and there, in his six feet two of comely manliness, stood
Jack, my Jack, more bronzed and handsome and loveable than ever. He
whom I had been mourning for by turns as dead and faithless, but whom
I now knew was neither; for he came towards me with both hands
outstretched, and he held mine in such a loving clasp, and he looked
at me with eyes which I knew were reading just such another tale as
that written on his own face.

Then when the knock sounded which heralded Miss Chisholm, he said:--

"Come into another room, Sybil; I have so much to say to you."

And in that other room he told me of his adventures and perils, and
how through them all he had thought of me and wondered, if he never
came back alive, whether I should be sorry, and, if he did come back,
whether I would promise to be his darling little wife, very, very
soon.

But all this, though far more beautiful than poet ever wrote, was not
Shakespeare, and I was to act Juliet at night--Juliet the wretched,
the heartbroken--while my own spirits were dancing, and my pulses
bounding with joy and delight unutterable.

Wel