ou and I haven't found
the right mixture yet."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Merston. "Perhaps not."

"I'm going to have another try," said Sylvia, with sudden energy.

"I wish you luck," said Mrs. Merston somewhat grimly.

CHAPTER IV

MIRAGE

From the day of her visit to the Merstons Sylvia took up her old
life again, and pursued all her old vocations with a vigour that
seemed even more enthusiastic than of yore. Her ministrations to
Guy had ceased to be of an arduous character, or indeed to occupy
much of her time. It was mainly Burke who filled Kieff's place and
looked after Guy generally with a quiet efficiency that never
encouraged any indulgence. They seemed to be good friends, yet
Sylvia often wondered with a dull ache at the heart if this were
any more than seeming. There was so slight a show of intimacy
between them, so little of that camaraderie generally so noticeable
between dwellers in the wilderness. Sometimes she fancied she
caught a mocking light in Guy's eyes when they looked at Burke. He
was always perfectly docile under his management, but was he always
genuine? She could not tell. His recovery amazed her. He seemed
to possess an almost boundless store of vitality. He cast his
weakness from him with careless jesting, laughing down all her
fears. She knew well that he was not so strong as he would have
had her believe, that he fought down his demon of suffering in
solitude, that often he paid heavily for deeds of recklessness.
But the fact remained that he had come back from the gates of
death, and each day she marvelled anew.

She and Burke seldom spoke of him when together. That intangible
reserve that had grown up between them seemed to make it
impossible. She had no longer the faintest idea as to Burke's
opinion of the returned prodigal, whether he still entertained his
previous conviction that Guy was beyond help, or whether he had
begun at length to have any confidence for the future. In a vague
fashion his reticence hurt her, but she could not bring herself to
attempt to break through it. He was a man perpetually watching for
something, and it made her uneasy and doubtful, though for what he
watched she had no notion. For it was upon herself rather than
upon Guy that his attention seemed to be concentrated. His
attitude puzzled her. She felt curiously like a prisoner, though
to neither word, nor look, nor deed could she ascribe the feeling.
She was even at times disposed to