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 a merry 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 new-mown 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. Aren'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.

"Someone 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 dun veil 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 Casabianca."

"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.

Twilight 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.