for up sprung its warm blood to her cheek, its hope to her eye, its longing to her lips, its answer glad and ready—
"Ah, this is love!"
The clock struck ten, and after lingering a little Sylvia went down. Slowly, because her errand was a hard one; thoughtfully, because she knew not where nor how she could best deliver it. No need to look for him or linger for his coming; he was already there. Alone in the hall, absently smoothing a little silken shawl she often wore, and waiting with a melancholy patience that smote her to the heart. He went to meet her, took both her hands in his, and looked into her face so tenderly, so wistfully!-
"Sylvia, is it good night or good by?"
Her eyes filled, her hands trembled, her color paled, but she answered steadily—
"Forgive me; it is good by."
