poor maimed body by the doctors' orders. She only
shook her head as she saw Sylvia, spirit-like, steal in--white,
noiseless, and upborne from earth.

But noiseless as her step might be, he heard, he recognized, and
with a sigh he turned his poor disfigured face to the wall, hiding
it in the shadow.

He knew that she was by him; that she had knelt down by his bed;
that she was kissing his hand, over which the languor of approaching
death was stealing. But no one spoke.

At length he said, his face still averted, speaking with an effort.

'Little lassie, forgive me now! I cannot live to see the morn!'

There was no answer, only a long miserable sigh, and he felt her
soft cheek laid upon his hand, and the quiver that ran through her
whole body.

'I did thee a cruel wrong,' he said, at length. 'I see it now. But
I'm a dying man. I think that God will forgive me--and I've sinned
against Him; try, lassie--try, my Sylvie--will not thou forgive me?'

He listened intently for a moment. He heard through the open window
the waves lapping on the shelving shore. But there came no word from
her; only that same long shivering, miserable sigh broke from her
lips at length.

'Child,' said he, once more. 'I ha' made thee my idol; and if I
could live my life o'er again I would love my God more, and thee
less; and then I shouldn't ha' sinned this sin against thee. But
speak one word of love to me--one little word, that I may know I
have thy pardon.'

'Oh, Philip! Philip!' she moaned, thus adjured.

Then she lifted her head, and said,

'Them were wicked, wicked words, as I said; and a wicked vow as I
vowed; and Lord God Almighty has ta'en me at my word. I'm sorely
punished, Philip, I am indeed.'

He pressed her hand, he stroked her cheek. But he asked for yet
another word.

'I did thee a wrong. In my lying heart I forgot to do to thee as I
would have had thee to do to me. And I judged Kinraid in my heart.'

'Thou thought as he was faithless and fickle,' she answered quickly;
'and so he were. He were married to another woman not so many weeks
at after thou went away. Oh, Philip, Philip! and now I have thee
back, and--'

'Dying' was the word she would have said, but first the dread of
telling him what she believed he did not know, and next her
passionate sobs, choked her.

'I know,' said he, once more stroking her cheek, and soothing her
with gentle, caressing hand. 'Little lassie!' he said, after a while
when she was q