University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
THROUGH FLOOD AND FIELD AND FIRE.

Very early were they afloat again, and as they glided
up the stream Sylvia watched the earth's awakening, seeing
in it what her own should be. The sun was not yet visible
above the hills, but the sky was ready for his coming, with
the soft flush of color dawn gives only to her royal lover.
Birds were chanting matins as if all the jubilance of their
short lives must be poured out at once. Flowers stirred
and brightened like children after sleep. A balmy wind
came whispering from the wood, bringing the aroma of
pines, the cool breath of damp nooks, the healthful kiss
that leaves a glow behind. Light mists floated down the
river like departing visions that had haunted it by night,
and every ripple breaking on the shore seemed to sing a
musical good morrow.

Sylvia could not conceal the weariness her long vigil left
behind; and after betraying herself by a drowsy lurch that
nearly took her overboard, she made herself comfortable,
and slept till the grating of the keel on a pebbly shore woke
her to find a new harbor reached under the lee of a cliff,
whose deep shadow was very grateful after the glare of
noon upon the water.

“How do you intend to dispose of yourself this afternoon,

Adam?” asked Mark, when dinner was over and his
sister busy feeding the birds.

“In this way,” answered Warwick, producing a book
and settling himself in a commodious cranny of the rock.

“Moor and I want to climb the cliff and sketch the
view; but it is too rough a road for Sylvia. Would you
mind mounting guard for an hour or two? Read away, and
leave her to amuse herself; only pray don't let her get into
any mischief by way of enjoying her liberty, for she fears
nothing and is fond of experiments.”

“I'll do my best,” replied Warwick, with an air of resignation.

Having slung the hammock and seen Sylvia safely into
it, the climbers departed, leaving her to enjoy the luxury
of motion. For half an hour she swung idly, looking up
into the green pavilion overhead, where many insect families
were busy with their small joys and cares, or out over
the still landscape basking in the warmth of a cloudless
afternoon. Then she opened a book Mark had brought for
his own amusement, and began to read as intently as her
companion, who leaned against the boulder slowly turning
his pages, with leafy shadows flickering over his uncovered
head and touching it with alternate sun and shade. The
book proved interesting, and Sylvia was rapidly skimming
into the heart of the story, when an unguarded motion
caused her swing to slope perilously to one side, and in
saving herself she lost her book. This produced a predicament,
for being helped into a hammock and getting out
alone are two very different things She eyed the distance
from her nest to the ground, and fancied it had been made
unusually great to keep her stationary. She held fast with
one hand and stretched downward with the other; but the

book insolently flirted its leaves just out of reach. She
took a survey of Warwick; he had not perceived her plight,
and she felt an unwonted reluctance to call for help, because
he did not look like one used to come and go at a
woman's bidding. After several fruitless essays she decided
to hazard an ungraceful descent; and, gathering herself up,
was about to launch boldly out, when Warwick cried,
“Stop!” in a tone that nearly produced the catastrophe
he wished to avert. Sylvia subsided, and coming up he
lifted the book, glanced at the title, then keenly at the
reader.

“Do you like this?”

“So far very much.”

“Are you allowed to read what you choose?”

“Yes, sir. That is Mark's choice, however; I brought
no book.”

“I advise you to skim it into the river; it is not a book
for you.”

Sylvia caught a glimpse of the one he had been reading
himself, and impelled by a sudden impulse to see what
would come of it, she answered with a look as keen as his
own —

“You disapprove of my book; would you recommend
yours?”

“In this case, yes; for in one you will find much falsehood
in purple and fine linen, in the other some truth in fig-leaves.
Take your choice.”

He offered both; but Sylvia took refuge in civility.

“I thank you, I'll have neither; but if you will please
steady the hammock, I will try to find some more harmless
amusement for myself.”

He obeyed with one of the humorous expressions which

often passed over his face. Sylvia descended as gracefully
as circumstances permitted, and went roving up and down
the cliffs. Warwick resumed his seat and the “barbaric
yawp,” but seemed to find Truth in demi-toilet less interesting
than Youth in a gray gown and round hat, for which
his taste is to be commended. The girl had small scope
for amusement, and when she had gathered moss for pillows,
laid out a white fungus to dry for a future pin-cushion,
harvested penny-royal in little sheaves tied with
grass-blades, watched a battle between black ants and red,
and learned the landscape by heart; she was at the end of
her resources, and leaning on a stone surveyed earth and
sky with a somewhat despondent air.

“You would like something to do, I think?”

“Yes, Sir; for being rather new to this sort of life, I
have not yet learned how to dispose of my time.”

“I see that, and having deprived you of one employment
will try to replace it by another.”

Warwick rose, and going to the single birch that glimmered
among the pines like a delicate spirit of the wood,
he presently returned with strips of silvery bark.

“You were wishing for baskets to hold your spoils, yesterday;
shall we make some now?” he asked.

“How stupid in me not to think of that! Yes, thank
you, I should like it very much;” and producing her housewife,
Sylvia fell to work with a brightening face.

Warwick sat a little below her on the rock, shaping his
basket in perfect silence. This did not suit Sylvia, for feeling
lively and loquacious she wanted conversation to occupy
her thoughts as pleasantly as the birch rolls were occupying
her hands, and there sat a person who, she was sure, could
do it perfectly if he chose. She reconnoitered with covert

glances, made sundry overtures, and sent out envoys in the
shape of scissors, needles, and thread. But no answering
glance met hers; her remarks received the briefest replies,
and her offers of assistance were declined with an absent
“No, thank you.” Then she grew indignant at this seeming
neglect, and thought, as she sat frowning over her work,
behind his back —

“He treats me like a child, — very well, then, I'll
behave like one, and beset him with questions till he is
driven to speak; for he can talk, he ought to talk, he shall
talk.”

“Mr. Warwick, do you like children?” she began, with
a determined aspect.

“Better than men or women.”

“Do you enjoy amusing them?”

“Exceedingly, when in the humor.”

“Are you in the humor now?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then why don't you amuse me?”

“Because you are not a child.”

“I fancied you thought me one.”

“If I had, I probably should have put you on my knee,
and told you fairy tales, or cut dolls for you out of this
bark, instead of sitting respectfully silent and making a
basket for your stores.”

There was a curious smile about Warwick's mouth as he
spoke, and Sylvia was rather abashed by her first exploit.
But there was a pleasure in the daring, and choosing another
topic she tried again.

“Mark was telling me last night about the great college
you had chosen; I thought it must be a very original and
interesting way to educate one's self, and wanted very much

to know what you had been studying lately. May I ask
you now?”

“Men and women,” was the brief answer.

“Have you got your lesson, sir?”

“A part of it very thoroughly, I believe.”

“Would you think me rude if I asked which part?”

“The latter.”

“And what conclusions do you arrive at concerning this
branch of the subject?” asked Sylvia, smiling and interested.

“That it is both dangerous and unsatisfactory.”

He spoke so gravely, looked so stern, that Sylvia obeyed
a warning instinct and sat silent till she had completed a
canoe-shaped basket, the useful size of which produced
a sudden longing to fill it. Her eye had already spied a
knoll across the river covered with vines, and so suggestive
of berries that she now found it impossible to resist the desire
for an exploring trip in that direction. The boat was
too large for her to manage alone, but an enterprising spirit
had taken possession of her, and having made one voyage
of discovery with small success she resolved to try again,
hoping a second in another direction might prove more
fruitful.

“Is your basket done, sir?” she asked.

“Yes; will you have it?”

“Why, you have made it as an Indian would, using
grass instead of thread. It is much more complete than
mine, for the green stitches ornament the white bark, but
the black ones disfigure it. I should know a man made
your basket and a woman mine.”

“Because one is ugly and strong, the other graceful but
unable to stand alone?” asked Warwick, rising, with a

gesture that sent the silvery shreds flying away on the
wind.

“One holds as much as the other, however; and I fancy
the woman would fill hers soonest if she had the wherewithal
to do it. Do you know there are berries on that
hillside opposite?”

“I see vines, but consider fruit doubtful, for boys and
birds are thicker than blackberries.”

“I've a firm conviction that they have left some for us;
and as Mark says you like frankness, I think I shall venture
to ask you to row me over and help me fill the baskets on
the other side.”

Sylvia looked up at him with amerry mixture of doubt
and daring in her face, and offered him his hat.

“Very good, I will,” said Warwick, leading the way to
the boat with an alacrity which proved how much pleasanter
to him was action than repose.

There was no dry landing-place just opposite, and as he
rowed higher, Adam fixed his eyes on Sylvia with a look
peculiar to himself, a gaze more keen than soft, which
seemed to search one through and through with its rapid
discernment. He saw a face full of contradictions, — youthful,
maidenly, and intelligent, yet touched with the unconscious
melancholy which is born of disappointment and
desire. The mouth was sweet and tender as a woman's
should be, the brow spirited and thoughtful; but the eyes
were by turns eager, absent, or sad, and there was much
pride in the carriage of the small head with its hair of wavy
gold gathered into a green snood, whence little tendrils kept
breaking loose to dance upon her forehead, or hang about
her neck. A most significant but not a beautiful face, because
of its want of harmony. The dark eyes, among their

fair surroundings, disturbed the sight as a discord in music
jars upon the ear; even when the lips smiled the sombre
shadow of black lashes seemed to fill them with a gloom
that was never wholly lost. The voice, too, which should
have been a girlish treble, was full and low as a matured
woman's, with now and then a silvery ring to it, as if another
and a blither creature spoke.

Sylvia could not be offended by the grave penetration of
this glance, though an uncomfortable consciousness that
she was being analyzed and tested made her meet it with
a look intended to be dignified, but which was also somewhat
defiant, and more than one smile passed over Warwick's
countenance as he watched her. The moment the
boat glided with a soft swish among the rushes that
fringed the shore, she sprang up the bank, and leaving a
basket behind her by way of hint, hurried to the sandy
knoll, where, to her great satisfaction, she found the vines
heavy with berries. As Warwick joined her she held up
a shining cluster, saying with a touch of exultation in her
voice —

“My faith is rewarded; taste and believe.”

He accepted them with a nod, and said pleasantly —

“As my prophecy has failed, let us see if yours will be
fulfilled.”

“I accept the challenge.” And down upon her knees
went Sylvia among the vines, regardless of stains, rents, or
wounded hands.

Warwick strolled away to leave her “claim” free, and
silence fell between them; for one was too busy with
thorns, the other with thoughts, to break the summer stillness.
Sylvia worked with as much energy as if a silver
cup was to be the reward of success. The sun shone fervently

and the wind was cut off by the hill, drops gathered
on her forehead and her cheeks glowed; but she only
pushed off her hat, thrust back her hair, and moved on to a
richer spot. Vines caught at her by sleeve and skirt as if
to dishearten the determined plunderer, but on she went
with a wrench and a rip, an impatient “Ah!” and a hasty
glance at damaged fabrics and fingers. Lively crickets
flew up in swarms about her, surly wasps disputed her
right to the fruit, and drunken bees blundered against
her as they met zigzagging homeward much the worse for
blackberry wine. She never heeded any of them, though
at another time she would gladly have made friends with
all, but found compensation for her discomforts in the busy
twitter of sand swallows perched on the mullein-tops, the
soft flight of yellow butterflies, and the rapidity with which
the little canoe received its freight of “Ethiop sweets.” As
the last handful went in she sprung up crying “Done!”
with a suddenness that broke up the Long Parliament and
sent its members skimming away as if a second “Noll”
had appeared among them. “Done!” came back Warwick's
answer like a deep echo from below, and hurrying
down to meet him she displayed her success, saying
archly —

“I am glad we both won, though to be perfectly candid
I think mine is decidedly the fullest.” But as she swung up
her birch pannier the handle broke, and down went basket,
berries and all, into the long grass rustling at her feet.

Warwick could not restrain a laugh at the blank dismay
that fell upon the exultation of Sylvia's face, and for a
moment she was both piqued and petulant. Hot, tired,
disappointed, and, hardest of all, laughed at, it was one of
those times that try girls' souls. But she was too old to

cry, too proud to complain, too well-bred to resent, so the
little gust passed over unseen, she thought, and joining in
the merriment she said, as she knelt down beside the
wreck —

“This is a practical illustration of the old proverb, and
I deserve it for my boasting. Next time I'll try to combine
strength and beauty in my work.”

To wise people character is betrayed by trifles. Warwick
stopped laughing, and something about the girlish
figure in the grass, regathering with wounded hands the
little harvest lately lost, seemed to touch him. His face
softened suddenly as he collected several broad leaves,
spread them on the grass, and sitting down by Sylvia,
looked under her hat-brim with a glance of mingled penitence
and friendliness.

“Now, young philosopher, pile up your berries in that
green platter while I repair the basket. Bear this in mind
when you work in bark: make your handle the way of the
grain, and choose a strip both smooth and broad.”

Then drawing out his knife he fell to work, and while
he tied green withes, as if the task were father to the
thought, he told her something of a sojourn among the
Indians, of whom he had learned much concerning their
woodcraft, arts, and superstitions; lengthening the legend
till the little canoe was ready for another launch. With
her fancy full of war-trails and wampum. Sylvia followed
to the river-side, and as they floated back dabbled her
stained fingers in the water, comforting their smart with
its cool flow till they swept by the landing-place, when she
asked, wonderingly —

“Where are we going now? Have I been so troublesome
that I must be taken home?”

“We are going to get a third course to follow the berries,
unless you are afraid to trust yourself to me.”

“Indeed, I'm not; take me where you like, sir.”

Something in her frank tone, her confiding look, seemed
to please Warwick; he sat a moment looking into the
brown depths of the water, and let the boat drift, with no
sound but the musical drip of drops from the oars.

“You are going upon a rock, sir.”

“I did that three months ago.”

He spoke as if to himself, his face darkened, and he
shook the hair off his forehead with an impatient gesture.
A swift stroke averted the shock, and the boat shot down
the stream, leaving a track of foam behind it as Warwick
rowed with the energy of one bent on outstripping some
importunate remembrance or dogging care. Sylvia marvelled
greatly at the change which came upon him, but
held fast with flying hair and lips apart to catch the
spray, enjoying the breezy flight along a path tessellated
with broad bars of blue and gold. The race ended as
abruptly as it began, and Warwick seemed the winner,
for when they touched the coast of a floating lily-island,
the cloud was gone. As he shipped his oars he turned,
saying, with very much the look and manner of a pleasant
boy —

“You were asleep when we passed this morning; but I
know you like lilies, so let us go a fishing.”

“That I do!” cried Sylvia, capturing a great white
flower with a clutch that nearly took her overboard. Warwick
drew her back and did the gathering himself.

“Enough, sir, quite enough. Here are plenty to trim
our table and ourselves with; leave the rest for other voyagers
who may come this way.”

As Warwick offered her the dripping nosegay he looked
at the white hand scored with scarlet lines.

“Poor hand! let the lilies comfort it. You are a true
woman, Miss Sylvia, for though your palm is purple there 's
not a stain upon your lips, and you have neither worked
nor suffered for yourself it seems.”

“I don't deserve that compliment, because I was only
intent on outdoing you if possible; so you are mistaken
again you see.”

“Not entirely, I think. Some faces are so true an index
of character that one cannot be mistaken. If you doubt
this look down into the river, and such an one will inevitably
smile back at you.”

Pleased, yet somewhat abashed, Sylvia busied herself in
knotting up the long brown stems and tinging her nose
with yellow pollen as she inhaled the bitter-sweet breath of
the lilies. But when Warwick turned to resume the oars,
she said —

“Let us float out as we floated in. It is so still and
lovely here I like to stay and enjoy it, for we may never
see just such a scene again.”

He obeyed, and both sat silent, watching the meadows
that lay green and low along the shore, feeding their eyes
with the beauty of the landscape, till its peaceful spirit
seemed to pass into their own, and lend a subtle charm to
that hour, which henceforth was to stand apart, serene and
happy, in their memories forever. A still August day, with
a shimmer in the air that veiled the distant hills with the
mellow haze, no artist ever truly caught. Midsummer
warmth and ripeness brooded in the verdure of field and
forest. Wafts of fragrance went wandering by from newmown
meadows and gardens full of bloom. All the sky

wore its serenest blue, and up the river came frolic winds,
ruffling the lily leaves until they showed their purple linings,
sweeping shadowy ripples through the long grass, and
lifting the locks from Sylvia's forehead with a grateful
touch, as she sat softly swaying with the swaying of the
boat. Slowly they drifted out into the current, slowly
Warwick cleft the water with reluctant stroke, and slowly
Sylvia's mind woke from its trance of dreamy delight, as
with a gesture of assent she said —

“Yes, I am ready now. That was a happy little moment,
and I am glad to have lived it, for such times return
to refresh me when many a more stirring one is quite forgotten.”
A moment after she added, eagerly, as a new
object of interest appeared: “Mr. Warwick, I see smoke.
I know there is a wood on fire; I want to see it; please
land again.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the black cloud trailing
away before the wind, saw Sylvia's desire in her face, and
silently complied; for being a keen student of character,
he was willing to prolong an interview that gave him
glimpses of a nature in which the woman and the child
were curiously blended.

“I love fire, and that must be a grand one, if we could
only see it well. This bank is not high enough; let us go
nearer and enjoy it,” said Sylvia, finding that an orchard
and a knoll or two intercepted the view of the burning
wood.

“It is too far.”

“Not at all. I am no helpless, fine lady. I can walk,
run, and climb like any boy; so you need have no fears for
me. I may never see such a sight again, and you know
you 'd go if you were alone. Please come, Mr. Warwick.”

“I promised Mark to take care of you, and for the very
reason that you love fire, I'd rather not take you into that
furnace, lest you never come out again. Let us go back
immediately.”

The decision of his tone ruffled Sylvia, and she turned
wilful at once, saying in a tone as decided as his own —

“No; I wish to see it. I am always allowed to do what
I wish, so I shall go;” with which mutinous remark she
walked straight away towards the burning wood.

Warwick looked after her, indulging a momentary desire
to carry her back to the boat, like a naughty child. But
the resolute aspect of the figure going on before him, convinced
him that the attempt would be a failure, and with
an amused expression he leisurely followed her.

Sylvia had not walked five minutes before she was satisfied
that it was too far: but having rebelled, she would
not own herself in the wrong, and being perverse, insisted
upon carrying her point, though she walked all night. On
she went over walls, under rails, across brooks, along the
furrows of more than one ploughed field, and in among the
rustling corn, that turned its broad leaves to the sun,
always in advance of her companion, who followed with
exemplary submission, but also with a satirical smile, that
spurred her on as no other demonstration could have done.
Six o'clock sounded from the church behind the hill; still
the wood seemed to recede as she pursued, still close behind
her came the steady footfalls, with no sound of weariness
in them, and still Sylvia kept on, till, breathless, but successful,
she reached the object of her search.

Keeping to the windward of the smoke, she gained a
rocky spot still warm and blackened by the late passage of
the flames, and pausing there, forgot her own pranks in

watching those which the fire played before her eyes.
Many acres were burning, the air was full of the rush and
roar of the victorious element, the crash of trees that fell
before it, and the shouts of men who fought it unavailingly.

“Ah, this is grand! I wish Mark and Mr. Moor were
here. Are n't you glad you came, sir?”

Sylvia glanced up at her companion, as he stood regarding
the scene with the intent, alert expression one often
sees in a fine hound when he scents danger in the air. But
Warwick did not answer, for as she spoke a long, sharp cry
of human suffering rose above the tumult, terribly distinct
and full of ominous suggestion.

“Some one was killed when that tree fell! Stay here
till I come back;” and Adam strode away into the wood
as if his place were where the peril lay.

For ten minutes Sylvia waited, pale and anxious; then
her patience gave out, and saying to herself, “I can go
where he does, and women are always more helpful than
men at such times,” she followed in the direction whence
came the fitful sound of voices. The ground was hot underneath
her feet, red eyes winked at her from the blackened
sod, and fiery tongues darted up here and there, as if
the flames were lurking still, ready for another outbreak.
Intent upon her charitable errand, and excited by the novel
scene, she pushed recklessly on, leaping charred logs, skirting
still burning stumps, and peering eagerly into the dunveil
that wavered to and fro. The appearance of an impassable
ditch obliged her to halt, and pausing to take
breath, she became aware that she had lost her way. The
echo of voices had ceased, a red glare was deepening in
front, and clouds of smoke enveloped her in a stifling atmosphere.
A sense of bewilderment crept over her; she

knew not where she was; and after a rapid flight in what
she believed a safe direction had been cut short by the fall
of a blazing tree before her, she stood still, taking counsel
with herself. Darkness and danger seemed to encompass
her, fire flickered on every side, and suffocating vapors
shrouded earth and sky. A bare rock suggested one hope
of safety, and muffling her head in her skirt, she lay down
faint and blind, with a dull pain in her temples, and a fear
at her heart fast deepening into terror, as her breath grew
painful and her head began to swim.

“This is the last of the pleasant voyage! Oh, why does
no one think of me?”

As the regret rose, a cry of suffering and entreaty broke
from her. She had not called for help till now, thinking
herself too remote, her voice too feeble to overpower the
din about her. But some one had thought of her, for as
the cry left her lips steps came crashing through the wood,
a pair of strong arms caught her up, and before she could
collect her scattered senses she was set down beyond all
danger on the green bank of a little pool.

“Well, salamander, have you had fire enough?” asked
Warwick, as he dashed a handful of water in her face with
such energetic goodwill that it took her breath away.

“Yes, oh yes, — and of water, too! Please stop, and let
me get my breath!” gasped Sylvia, warding off a second
baptism and staring dizzily about her.

“Why did you quit the place where I left you?” was
the next question, somewhat sternly put.

“I wanted to know what had happened.”

“So you walked into a bonfire to satisfy your curiosity,
though you had been told to keep out of it? You 'd never
make a Casabianea.

“I hope not, for of all silly children, that boy was the
silliest, and he deserved to be blown up for his want of
common sense,” cried the girl, petulantly.

“Obedience is an old-fashioned virtue, which you would
do well to cultivate along with your common sense, young
lady.”

Sylvia changed the subject, for Warwick stood regarding
her with an irate expression that was somewhat alarming.
Fanning herself with the wet hat, she asked abruptly —

“Was the man hurt, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Very much?”

“Yes.”

“Can I not do something for him? He is very far from
any house, and I have some experience in wounds.”

“He is past all help, above all want now.”

“Dead, Mr. Warwick?”

“Quite dead.”

Sylvia sat down as suddenly as she had risen, and covered
her face with a shiver, remembering that her own wilfulness
had tempted a like fate, and she too, might now
have been `past help, above all want.' Warwick went
down to the pool to bathe his hot face and blackened hands;
as he returned Sylvia met him with a submissive —

“I will go back now if you are ready, sir.”

If the way had seemed long in coming it was doubly so
in returning, for neither pride nor perversity sustained her
now, and every step cost an effort. “I can rest in the boat,”
was her sustaining thought; great therefore was her dismay
when on reaching the river no boat was to be seen.

“Why, Mr. Warwick, where is it?”

“A long way down the river by this time, probably.

Believing that we landed only for a moment, I did not fasten
it, and the tide has carried it away.”

“But what shall we do?”

“One of two things, — spend the night here, or go round
by the bridge.”

“Is it far?”

“Some three or four miles, I think.”

“Is there no shorter way? no boat or carriage to be
had?”

“If you care to wait, I can look for our runaway, or get
a wagon from the town.”

“It is growing late and you would be gone a long time, I
suppose?”

“Probably.”

“Which had we better do?”

“I should not venture to advise. Suit yourself, I will
obey orders.”

“If you were alone what would you do?”

“Swim across.”

Sylvia looked disturbed, Warwick impenetrable, the river
wide, the road long, and the cliffs the most inaccessible
of places. An impressive pause ensued, then she said
frankly —

“It is my own fault and I'll take the consequences. I
choose the bridge and leave you the river. If I don't appear
till dawn, tell Mark I sent him a good night,” and
girding up her energies she walked bravely off with much
external composure and internal chagrin.

As before, Warwick followed in silence. For a time
she kept in advance, then allowed him to gain upon her,
and presently fell behind, plodding doggedly on through
thick and thin, vainly trying to conceal the hunger and

fatigue that were fast robbing her of both strength and
spirits. Adam watched her with a masculine sense of the
justice of the retribution which his wilful comrade had
brought upon herself. But as he saw the elasticity leave
her steps, the color fade from her cheeks, the resolute
mouth relax, and the wistful eyes dim once or twice with
tears of weariness and vexation, pity got the better of pique,
and he relented. His steady tramp came to a halt, and
stopping by a wayside spring, he pointed to a mossy stone,
saying with no hint of superior powers —

“We are tired, let us rest.”

Sylvia dropped down at once, and for a few minutes
neither spoke, for the air was full of sounds more pertinent
to the summer night than human voices. From the copse
behind them, came the coo of wood-pigeons, from the grass
at their feet the plaintive chirp of crickets; a busy breeze
whispered through the willow, the little spring dripped
musically from the rock, and across the meadows came the
sweet chime of a bell. Twillight was creeping over forest,
hill, and stream, and seemed to drop refreshment and repose
upon all weariness of soul and body, more grateful to
Sylvia, than the welcome seat and leafy cup of water Warwick
brought her from the spring.

The appearance of a thirsty sparrow gave her thoughts a
pleasant turn, for, sitting motionless, she watched the little
creature trip down to the pool, drink and bathe, then flying
to a willow spray, dress its feathers, dry its wings, and sit
chirping softly as if it sang its evening hymn. Warwick
saw her interest, and searching in his pocket, found the
relics of a biscuit, strewed a few bits upon the ground before
him, and began a low, sweet whistle, which rose gradually
to a varied strain, alluring, spirited, and clear as any

bird voice of the wood. Little sparrow ceased his twitter,
listened with outstretched neck and eager eye, hopping
restlessly from twig to twig, until he hung just over the
musician's head, agitated with a small flutter of surprise,
delight, and doubt. Gathering a crumb or two into his
hand, Warwick held it toward the bird, while softer, sweeter,
and more urgent rose the invitation, and nearer and
nearer drew the winged guest, fascinated by the spell.

Suddenly a belated blackbird lit upon the wall, surveyed
the group and burst into a jubilant song, that for a
moment drowned his rival's notes. Then, as if claiming
the reward, he fluttered to the grass, ate his fill, took a sip
from the mossy basin by the way, and flew singing over the
river, leaving a trail of music behind him. There was a
dash and daring about this which fired little sparrow with
emulation. His last fear seemed conquered, and he flew
confidingly to Warwick's palm, pecking the crumbs with
grateful chirps and friendly glances from its quick, bright
eye. It was a pretty picture for the girl to see; the man,
an image of power, in his hand the feathered atom, that,
with unerring instinct, divined and trusted the superior
nature which had not yet lost its passport to the world of
innocent delights that Nature gives to those who love her
best. Involuntarily Sylvia clapped her hands, and, startled
by the sudden sound, little sparrow skimmed away.

“Thank you for the pleasantest sight I've seen for many
a day. How did you learn this gentle art, Mr. Warwick?”

“I was a solitary boy, and found my only playmates in
the woods and fields. I learned their worth, they saw my
need, and when I asked their friendship, gave it freely.
Now we should go; you are very tired, let me help you.”

He held his hand to her, and she put her own into it with

a confidence as instinctive as the bird's. Then, hand in
hand they crossed the bridge and struck into the wilderness
again; climbing slopes still warm and odorous, passing
through dells full of chilly damps, along meadows spangled
with fire-flies, and haunted by sonorous frogs; over rocks
crisp with pale mosses, and between dark firs, where shadows
brooded, and melancholy breezes rocked themselves to sleep.
Speaking seldom, yet feeling no consciousness of silence, no
sense of restraint, for they no longer seemed like strangers
to one another, and this spontaneous friendliness lent an
indefinable charm to the dusky walk. Warwick found satisfaction
in the knowledge of her innocent faith in him, the
touch of the little hand he held, the sight of the quiet figure
at his side. Sylvia felt that it was pleasant to be the
object of his care, fancied that they would learn to know
each other better in three days of this free life than in as
many months at home, and rejoiced over the discovery of
unsuspected traits in him, like the soft lining of the chestnut
burr, to which she had compared him more than once
that afternoon. So, mutually and unconsciously yielding
to the influence of the hour and the mood it brought
them, they walked through the twilight in that eloquent
silence which often proves more persuasive than the most
fluent speech.

The welcome blaze of their own fire gladdened them at
length, and when the last step was taken, Sylvia sat down
with an inward conviction she never could get up again.
Warwick told their mishap in the fewest possible words,
while Mark, in a spasm of brotherly solicitude, goaded the
fire to a roar that his sister's feet might be dried, administered
a cordial as a preventive against cold, and prescribed
her hammock the instant supper was done. She went

away with him, but a moment after she came to Warwick
with a box of Prue's ointment and a soft handkerchief stripped
into bandages.

“What now?” he asked.

“I wish to dress your burns, sir.”

“They will do well enough with a little water; go you
and rest.”

“Mr. Warwick, you know you ate your supper with
your left hand, and put both behind you when you saw me
looking at them. Please let me make them easier; they
were burnt for me, and I shall get no sleep till I have had
my way.”

There was a curious mixture of command and entreaty
in her manner, and before their owner had time to refuse or
comply, the scorched hands were taken possession of, the
red blisters covered with a cool bandage, and the frown of
pain smoothed out of Warwick's forehead by the prospect
of relief. As she tied the last knot, Sylvia glanced up
with a look that mutely asked pardon for past waywardness,
and expressed gratitude for past help; then, as if her
heart were set at rest, she was gone before her patient could
return his thanks.

She did not reappear, Mark went to send a lad after the
lost boat, and the two friends were left alone; Warwick
watching the blaze, Moor watching him, till, with a nod
toward a pair of diminutive boots that stood turning out
their toes before the fire, Adam said —

“The wearer of those defiant-looking articles is the most
capricious piece of humanity it was ever my fortune to see.
You have no idea of the life she has led me since you left.”

“I can imagine it.”

“She is as freakish, and wears as many shapes as Puck;

a gnat, a will-o'-the-wisp, a Sister of Charity, a meek-faced
child; and one does not know in which guise she pleases
most. Hard the task of him who has and tries to hold
her.

“Hard yet happy; for a word will tame the high spirit,
a look touch the warm heart, a kind act be repaid with one
still kinder. She is a woman to be studied well, taught
tenderly, and, being won, cherished with an affection that
knows no shadow of a change.”

Moor spoke low, and on his face the fire-light seemed to
shed a ruddier glow than it had done before. Warwick
eyed him keenly for a moment, then said, with his usual
abruptness —

“Geoffrey, you should marry.”

“Set me the example by mortgaging your own heart,
Adam.”

“I have.”

“I thought so. Tell me the romance.”

“It is the old story — a handsome woman, a foolish man;
a few weeks of doubt, a few of happiness; then the two
stand apart to view the leap before they take it; after that,
peace or purgatory, as they choose well or ill.”

“When is the probation over, Adam?”

“In June, God willing.”

The hope of deliverance gave to Warwick's tone the
fervor of desire, and led his friend to believe in the existence
of a passion deep and strong as the heart he knew so
well. No further confessions disturbed his satisfaction, for
Warwick scorned complaint; pity he would not receive,
sympathy was powerless to undo the past, time alone would
mend it, and to time he looked for help. He rose presently
as if bedward bound, but paused behind Moor, turned his

face upward, and said, bending on it a look given to this
friend alone —

“If my confidence were a good gift, you should have it.
But my experience must not mar your faith in womankind.
Keep it as chivalrous as ever, and may God send you the
mate whom you deserve. Geoffrey, good night.”

“Good night, Adam.”

And with a hand-shake more expressive of affection than
many a tenderer demonstration, they parted — Warwick to
watch the stars for hours, and Moor to muse beside the fire
till the little boots were dry.