 11. When the Sabbath ushered in another week, Sylvie was able to rise from her couch, propped by pillows in an antiquated armchair belonging to Ursule, she sat by the window, listening to the music of church bells, and gazing upon the little pot of mignonette that still stood upon the window sill. Though Dr. Sylvester had sternly issued a decree for the banishment of all flowers from the sick chamber, there was nothing else visible upon which her beauty-loving eyes could rest with passing pleasure, dingy housetops, and congregations of chimneys hemmed in the prospect. The faintly-colored, straggling mignonette looked feeble and rooping, for it had often lacked care, or been thrust aside or forgotten during her illness. She involuntarily compared the sickly plant which now sent forth no perceptible odor to herself. A little sunshine and water, she mused, will revive this plower flower and call forth its lost perfume. Are there no strengthening and freshening influences to restore my voice? I remember well it was this humble little flower that, blooming in secret, charmed me by its gift of frankrance, and inspired the hope that, despite my own obscurity and lowliness, my gift would not be wasted. Sylvester's health now slowly but steadily improved. Each day she grew stronger, but no sign gave the faintest promise of restoration to her vocal powers. She seldom essayed to speak. The effort had so often proved futile that, little by little, a disinclination to make the attempt grew upon her. She communicated her wishes or made replies by the most eloquent pantomime, and, when that wordless medium proved insufficient, the porcelain slate and the little silver pencil of Meitre Bourjeaux were in requisition. Dain Beno, Métayu, and a few other, unpretending but devoted friends, were permitted to visit her. Yet all their tender inquiries and touching words of sympathy conjured no-champ sound from her lips. That she was mute appeared to be a matter of course, not that she did not cherish the deep underlying hope that this spell of silence would one day be broken. But a heavenly voice within whispered that by unmermeringly accepting the present and trusting in the future she could alone receive the good made possible to unrebellious spirits. God's patience, which lightens sorrows through endurance, not combat, sank softly into her meek and chasen soul. A holy trust preserved her from ever doubting the wisdom which permitted her affliction, a trust which does not only deem that blessed which we receive, but believes greater blessings are often times sent through that which we lose. God bless all our gains, say we, but God bless all our losses, better suits with our degree. Sylvie soon began to experience that delightful sense of convalescence which makes an invalid feel as if the whole system were freshened and renewed. It seemed to her as though her soul grew stronger and more largely fitted for life's manifold purposes as its delicate receptacle gained new vigor. This pleasant state was often broken in upon by her mother's contrarious moods, which tested all the patient's trust and spiritual strength that Sylvie had acquired. On one occasion when Métro Bourjoux's magical violin had aroused her to a pitch of musical ecstasy, Madame de La Roche took advantage of a momentary pause to say, I have been waiting some time, Métro Bourjoux, to make a suggestion of importance. You must excuse my taking this opportunity. I want to speak to you about that piano. Here the cumbersome old thing has been occupying space and eating up gold unopened for nearly two months. It was always hard work to pay for its hire, and now what it cost is money quite thrown into the gutter. Sylvie will never need it more, for she only played accompaniments to her songs, and there's no chance of her singing again in a hurry. Won't you oblige me by attending to this matter? The rude shock of those words sent a convulsive shudder through Sylvie's frame, and her quivering lips moved without sound as her nervous fingers grasped her pencil. Bourjoux dived into his snuffbox, and a liberal and vehement snuffing of its contents partially smothered a sound very much like the gnash of teeth blended with a muttered oaf. But tenderness towards Sylvie had taught him self-control when he was irritated by her mother, and he answered in a calmly caustic tone, Your prudence is highly commendable, Madame. I will attend to the piano, until I send for it. You will be good enough to leave the instrument where it now stands, but it is understood that you give it up from today, and henceforth it will cost you nothing. I shall feel more satisfied when it is gone, for there is no use of nourishing false hopes, resumed Madame de La Roche pertinaciously. It's a deal better to make up one's mind at once that there is no hope, and I am sure there never was for any of us. Yet there is Sylvie, in spite of all we have undergone, and notwithstanding her own misfortune, persistent saying that she don't believe in luck. Sylvie wrote upon her slate in reply, I do not believe in luck, simply because I do not believe in chance. I do believe in God. The ways of God are mysterious, inscrutable, but God cannot be wrong. Oh, that's a very proper theory, replied her mother, glancing over the words Sylvie had traced. But I don't see that it proves itself when all one's best intentions are frustrated and all one's most prudent and promising plans are brought to naught. Sylvie wrote, we have all hoped great things. We have sown, as we thought, the seed for a great harvest. If God choose that our large hopes should wear the shape of small realities, if it be his will that the harvest should wither, ripened, he who is never motiveless has an end in view which our clay clouded vision cannot yet behold. We have only to be willing to receive the small gifts he sends, instead of the great ones we coveted, and be patient until our eyes are opened to see God's reason for allowing us this much and no more. If this is easy preaching, hard practicing, resumed the mother, shaking her head mistrustfully, there is no getting over the fact that all the good gifts of this life are very unequally distributed. Sylvie paused a while, as though musing upon this seeming truth, then took up her pencil, softly smiling as she wrote. Not unequally in reality, however unequal the distribution may appear. If everyone is allowed, just the amount of success and prosperity is subjected to just the degree of trial or temptation is placed in precisely the situation which will develop his true character, bring out his evil inclinations through exciting causes that he may become aware of and conquer them, and call forth his noble attributes that they may be perfected by use, can we call man's allotment portions unequal? If to fit man for highest possible felicity, which he is capable of experiencing here and hereafter, be the great end of existence, can we talk of inequality when that end is obtained? Madame de La Roche read aloud what Sylvie had written and ejaculated, I cannot imagine where the child gets her singular ideas. She grows a deal too wise for her mother's simple comprehension, but with all her superior understanding I don't think her logic will ever convince me that there was any necessity for our misfortunes. I'll never believe that it was for the best that she should suddenly be struck dumb, just as all Paris had gone crazy about her voice, and I cannot see what good is to come of our being lifted to the topmost pinnacle of hope to be cast down to the lowest depths of despair. No, I maintain I shall never see any good in bat. Sylvie not only believed in, but she had begun to see that hidden good which her mother resolutely doubted, an involuntary self-examination had been the result of the many long reveries into which she had fallen during her convalescence, and had revealed how injurious to her own character might have proved the tensile clink of compliments that had sounded in her ears, the homage that had lifted her to startling heights in her own estimation, the perils by which she had been surrounded in an atmosphere of adulation, perils which she might not have been strong enough to encounter. Then her father, she vainly tried to close her eyes upon the conviction that his reckless prodigality could only be stemmed by the check of poverty. She did not want to admit to herself that this first harsh lesson was sent to him also, because through privation and adversity he could alone be made aware of his inconsequent extravagance, or be taught the most common prudence, or be inspired with a sense of the honesty of economy. Sylvie was now able to walk about the chamber, and if her mother had permitted she would have resumed some of her former duties. Dr. Suvestra, who attended her daily and had made numerous experiments upon her throat, exhausting the virtues of caustic and iodine, and other potent agents, finally pronounced that she was well enough to receive benefits from fresh air, and ordered her to drive out several times a day every week. This opinion had been given the day before the first of November, which is set apart for the great Fet of All Saints Day. That general holiday was most welcome to Métro Bourjeu, for it afforded him a period of rare freedom. The number of his pupils had so rapidly increased that he had little leisure, and the moments devoted to Sylvie were snatched at intervals between his lessons. As soon as he heard the doctor's order, Métro Bourjeu determined to see it obeyed. Pierre de la Chasse is the usual resort of the Parisian populace upon this particular Fet Day, but Métro Bourjeu decided to carry Sylvie to Jardin de Le Plain, as a locality where the crowd would be avoided, and she could enjoy air and exercise with more freedom. In so gentle a tone that no one who had only heard him address others would have recognized his voice, he said to her, Would not you and Mamzelle Urzoul like to pass a day beneath the trees and listen to the birds instead of to a worse musician? If you would, we will go to Jardin de Le Plain tomorrow. There, there no need of writing your answer. As she took up her pencil, your face has replied, and I will come for you tomorrow at ten. Métro Bourjeu had now obtained such decided influence over the parents of Sylvie, who felt how much depended upon his good will that neither of them threw any obstacle in the way of his project. Sylvie had given no thought to her toilette, or rather she had not remembered that her scanty wardrobe would not allow her to make a presentable appearance. But as her health was gradually restored, Urzoul had ventured to suggest to Bourjeu that his protégé would need additions to her wardrobe. The hundred franc to the young singer had been exhausted during her illness, but the trustworthy dressmaker was ordered to look upon the musician as Sylvie's banker, and received a carte blanche to purchase whatever was necessary for her health, her comfort, or her toilette. On the morning of the fit, Urzoul entered the young girl's room before she had risen and placed beside her a neatly folded bundle and a band box. While Sylvie watched her visitor with a wondering eyes, the latter complacently and with tantalizing deliberation extracted pin after pin from the cover of the package and drew forth a black silk dress, a peltot to match, and a clean linen chemisette with sleeves, a pair of dainty gaiters and gloves. She opened the band box and exhibited a black velvet bonnet ornamented only with a bunch of pansies in the white cap within. Urzoul had consulted economy as well as elegance in the choice of attire and had duly reflected that black silk would be unexceptionable on many occasions that would necessarily present themselves if Sylvie returned to her artist life and would out wear many other materials. Now get up and let us see how the dress fits. I made it only by your old measure, said Urzoul gaily. As for the bonnet, I am sure that will become you. Do you not approve of my choice? Sylvie nodded in the affirmative, but extended her hand for the slate, an action that seemed to indicate that her surprise and pleasure were mingled with some uneasiness. Urzoul stopped her after the style of Meitre Bourjou. It was odd to see how often she copied his manners. I know what you want to ask. You are such a mercenary little individual. You are troubled about my extravagance. Set your heart at rest. Ever since you have been ill, Meitre Bourjou has furnished me at intervals with portions of the hundred francs that Monsieur Le Grand paid to him for you. And I flatter myself that I have expended what was entrusted to me with praiseworthy economy. As for the grand toilette you are to make d'hude, that is a matter arranged between Meitre Bourjou and myself. That Urzoul's taste was irreproachable and Sylvie's attire became her, the compliment which her aesthetic teacher looked but did not utter bore ample testimony. In her new attire, her figure seemed taller, more womanly, and the graceful cut peltot concealed its exceeding slenderness. The sweet, pure face that looked out from its surrounding black velvet, like the picture of some virgin saint from a sombre frame, was spiritualized by the very parlor of the countenance and the absence of rounded outlines. The great blue eyes shone with the celestial softness of a sorrow accepted and meekly born. Upon the lips was the seal of peace, breaking their characteristic firmness into a half smile. It was a glorious autumn day. The air was slightly bracing but not cold. The golden sunlight tinged all creation with a Midas touch, yet did not oppress with its fervor, or dazzle with its brilliancy. The last time Métro Bourgeois had officiated as his gifted pupil's escort, his narrow means had permitted him to provide only a common foie croix. But now, Vauteuil d'Armi, the nearest approach to a private carriage that could be obtained, stood at the humble entrance. Not that elegance had any weight with the old musician, it was the comfort of his dear Invalid and the fitness of the conveyance as regarded her that he alone consulted. As he carefully conducted her down the steep stairs, with what a rush of emotion she recalled that night, when she had darted lightly up those steps, her elastic feet winged by excitement, her heart wildly throbbing with undefined hopes, her whole frame vibrating with the echo of prophecies of future greatness, which had electrified her ears. That night, when her soul had sprung up, full saturated of a sudden and pierced through its chrysalis clay, and floated in an atmosphere of sunshine and flowers, freighted with sweet scents and delicious sounds. That night, when her spirit first recognized its fellowship with beings of a loftier sphere through the might of music and the free masonry of genius, Maître Bourjot knocked at Ursul's door in passing, and she came forth at the summons ready for the drive. Beside the carriage steps, holding open the door, stood Métayu in his best threadbare suit. Sylvie smilingly saluted him as she took her seat. Ursul sat down beside her, but before Bourjot ascended to his place, he said to the boy, Now, up with you beside the driver. The late cynic, having once tasted the sweetness of imparting happiness, was often moved by an impulse to drink deeper of the sacred chalice. And yet he was half ashamed of his kind promptings. He would never have thought of excusing his own rudeness or hardness, but now he said, apologetically, I thought the little hunchback might be of service if we wanted anyone to wait upon us or go on an errand. He has invents such absolute devotion to you during your illness, and the little monkey is such a devotee to our art that, as it cost nothing, I thought it would do no harm to let him have a drive, though, of course, I take him chiefly for the sake of his services. Sylvie comprehended her master too well to answer, saved by a look of thanks. Encircled by Ursul's supporting arm, she leaned back in the carriage, striving to calm the agitation produced by the vivid recollections that crowded in her brain. The fresh, invigorating air caressed her flushing cheeks and cooled her brow. The easy motion of the carriage soothed her and lulled the pain of two busy thoughts until her wanted tranquility gradually returned. Bourgeois, as he silently contemplated his opposite companions, wondered how he could ever have fancied Sylvie's countenance positively ugly, and the face of her warmhearted friend, too plain for his fastidious eyes to dwell upon. Ursul's visognomy was so sympathetic, so trust-inspiring, that it seemed impossible for one to whom it was familiar to deem it homely. Yet not a single liniment was susceptible of the description. Her eyes were neither large nor small, neither light nor dark, but of a nameless, nondescript color. Her forehead was neither high nor low nor broad nor narrow. Her nose was neither of classic aquiline nor intellectual Roman nor vulgar snub, but the pecanth turned up order. It was simply an ordinary nose. Her mouth had no more marked peculiarity of shape, it was just a commonplace mouth. Yet something subtly shining out from within gave light and life to all her features, blended them into harmony, and endowed them with the capacity of multi-form expression. In her person, too, there was the same absence of emphasis. She was neither tall nor short nor plump nor thin. All her proportions were mediocre, but neutral tints were merely her outward coloring, and not the painting of her mental mold. A tender heart, united to a strong common sense, better defined as the most uncommon kind of sense, gave force to her whole character, and combined a quick perception of what was just and right, with a merciful leaning toward the side of gentleness and an unselfish consideration for the well-being of others. The drive seemed only too short for the silent party, who appeared to need no words to communicate to each other their quiet but deep enjoyment. When they reached the Jordan de Plante, bourgeois entrusted to Mitaio a covered basket and a blanket shawl, and the boy's mouth stretching, eye-kindling delight, was greatly increased by the discovery that he could actually be of service. Carriages are not permitted to enter the gates, and Sylvie, to her regret, found herself too feeble to visit the noteworthy objects, which attract curious crowds to this celebrated garden. She had hardly traversed one of those beautiful alleys where the interlacing branches of tall trees shut out the midday sun, when her feet faltered and her head drooped, like a flower too heavy for its stem. Her scanty stock of strength was exhausted. Maître Bourgeois spread the blanket shawl on the soft green grass, beneath a magnificent clump of sugar maples, and made her and her soles sit down. He reclined at a little distance, and Mitaio stood leaning against a tree, keeping watch over the unopened basket, and finding abundant happiness, engaging at Sylvie, unrebuke and unnoticed. Some remark of her soles struck the rock of Bourgeois pent-up conversational powers, and the stream gushed forth with a sparkling freedom that amazed the admiring spinster. Her former awe had somewhat melted away, and it was now wholly dissolved by this genial flow, which seemed the involuntary outpouring of feelings and reflections soul-prisoned for years. Ursul's ingenious tongue was the key to her heart, and the former was soon set in motion, and the latter unlocked. The reminiscences of the autumnal couple naturally traveled back to the sweet spring time over which memory cast her mellowing and felicitous light. Many were the anecdotes they related of their bygone days, until each felt as though youth had, for the moment, returned, and brought back some of its quick thrommings and joyful exhilaration, and bright glancings at life, and careless disdain of tear-o'dness form. Sylvie did not regret that she had forgotten her porcelain slate, for it allowed her to commune with her own thoughts. She sat recline against the reddening maple tree, gazing up at the blue sky, through the golden and crimson canopy of quivering autumn leaves, and looking as though her soul were pouring forth anthems of thanksgiving. She had not the remotest conception of the length of time she had been sitting thus, when bourgeois signed to Matayu to bring him the basket, and with her soul's assistance a delicate collation was spread upon the smooth turf. Dainty bits of cold fowl, thin slices of tongue, snowy rolls and biscuits, light cake, a few bonbons, and a small bottle of vin ordinaire. Matayu played the guenemide, and as Sylvie's position required him to kneel down to help her, the reverential action appeared to be the spontaneous manifestation of his own emotion. Her reverie was broken by his comical appearance, while offering her a plate in this lowly attitude. Her sense of the ludicrous provoked, but kindness repressed her mirth, and Matayu did not suspect the merriment he is excited. The air and the drive had sharpened her usually dull appetite, and the repast was partaken of with a novel relish. Lengthening shadows warned Bourgeois to look at his watch, of which he was not a little proud, for it had been presented by a class of pupils, and was the first which he had ever possessed. It was three o'clock, and he dreaded the least approach of dampness for Sylvie, but when he told her that the hour for their return had arrived, she grew quite rebellious in her reluctant to depart, and Bourgeois was obliged to assume his old tone of authority, though his attempt at sternness was a most transparent counterfeit. That happy day closed without alloy, and was written in shining characters in the chronicle of four lives. The next afternoon, when Bourgeois came, as usual, to charm away an hour with his music, he said to Sylvie, I gave Mamsel de Saint-Amare a lesson today. She was enchanted to hear that you had actually driven out. She insists upon sending her carriage tomorrow that you may enjoy another drive. Do you intend to refuse her polite offer, or will you go? May I, wrote Sylvie, I see no impropriety in your accepting, and I will invite the good Ursul to accompany you. What is the matter now? Why is that great shadow darkening over your face? About what are you thinking? I was thinking how far beneath Mamsel de Saint-Amare I am, wrote Sylvie. Nonsense! God's gift of genius places you upon an equality with any of God's creatures. But if he revoke that gift by taking from me the power to prove my claims to what you call genius, what then? Bourgeois was more embarrassed by that straightforward question than he cared to betray. Assisted by a few pinches of snuff, he answered evasively. I don't like ifs. They always herald some disagreeable but often unlikely possibility. But we have no time for idle speculations if you want to hear the carnival of Venus today, for I have another lesson to give shortly. When did Sylvie not want to hear the old violin? Bourgeois was in unusually high spirits when he came the next day to accompany Sylvie and Ursul on their drive. The carriage of the marquis de Saint-Amare arrived at the appointed hour and gladdened the eyes of Dame Manot. Bourgeois behaved in the most inexplicably hilarious manner. He rubbed his hands, chuckled and laughed to himself, tossed up his hat, then checked his mirthful demonstrations with comical self-rebuke and, plunging into his snuff box, extravagantly powdered his new suit with its dingy contents. When Ursul suggested that they should drive to the Bois de Boulogne, he replied, We shall see, we shall see, and hummed a gay tune, alternately looking out of the window and into the carriage to watch Sylvie's face. Why, we are in the four books Saint-Germain, exclaimed Ursul, and here we are stopping. Ah, we indeed, responded Bourgeois jocosly. How stupid of that pompous thick-skulled coachman is it not? I suppose he does not know what he is about. A massive gate was thrown open and they drove into a spacious court and stopped before the entrance of a superb mansion. What does this mean? asked Ursul, Englishman. Sylvie's face echoed the question, We shall see, we shall see, replied Bourgeois, still vehemently rubbing his hands. But where are we? Whom are we going to see? inquired Ursul, now wrought up into a high pitch of nervous agitation. One of my pupils answered the musician proudly, Come, let me give you a handout. Give me your hand first, Marcel Ursul. Very unwillingly, and with a frightened air, the spinster obeyed. As the door of the magnificent residence was thrown open by a liveried servant, she drew back, almost clung to Sylvie, who was mounting the steps. They had hardly crossed the threshold when light feet were heard in the distance, and a fairy-like form glided rapidly towards them, and Sylvie was clasped in the arms of honorine. While she embraced her humble friend, Mademoiselle de Santa-Mar turned her head towards Bourgeois, exclaiming, You would not promise to come, and yet I looked for you. I was watching at the window. Ah, Mademoiselle Sylvie, how we missed your beautiful voice, how we have mourned over your illness. Sylvie, for the first time for a long period, made an effort to speak. One moment she had forgotten her lost faculty. The gasping guttural sound died away in a faint groan. She was more keenly conscious than ever before of her privation, and intense pain mingled with the joy of again beholding Mademoiselle de Santa-Mar. That mute, woeful gaze turned on honorine was more pathetic than words or tears. Mademoiselle, unnoticed by Sylvie, had possessed himself of the little porcelain slate which he now placed in her hands. The shrinking Ursul was then presented to their youthful hostess, whose courteous greeting partially restored the equanimity of her confused visitor. The latter was ejaculating to herself, how fortunate that I chose Sylvie that black silk dress and velvet bonnet and that I put on my best of everything. Honorine, without loosening her clasp of Sylvie's hand, led the way to her own boudoir. Ursul paused in wonder as her feet sank into the depths of the soft carpet, among the mimic flowers as vivid and lifelike as though they had been freshly strewn to cover the floor. Then her eyes wandered in amazed admiration over the masterly pictures, chased statues, costly mirrors, rich draperies, and other exquisitely tasteful ornaments of the apartment. But Sylvie, seated beside Honorine, her small hand imprisoned in one as tiny, looked only into the bright face before her, unconsciously tracing in the clear amber eyes an ample brow, a resemblance that quickened her pulses and sent the ruby current in a pleasant glow through her violet veins. Three years before the date of our narrative, the parents of the Marquis de Saint-Amor and of his only sister were numbered among the victims of the cholera, then raging in Paris. Mademoiselle de Saint-Amor was eighteen at that period, though her infantile form and childlike manners caused her to appear much younger. Her brother was ten years her senior, a widowed and childless aunt whose fortune had been dissipated by a profligate husband, was invited by the Marquis to preside over his household and become the chaperone or social guardian of his sister. Madame de La Tour accepted this pleasant post with gratification, though hardly with gratitude for her narrow nature had scant room for the play of that noble emotion. Conventionality was her creed, the laws of good society her decalogue, indolence her heaven, unruffled quietude free from responsibility and an existence smoothly gliding through the worn channel's approved by the world were to her the acme of felicity. This repugnant to exertion enabled her spirited young niece, the spoiled darling of the household, a rosebud stet with little willful thorns to gain a sentency over her and to enjoy larger liberty than is accorded to young French maidens of her rank. Madame de La Tour was subject to migraine and various imaginary ailments, the mantle of an invalid being a graceful cloak for her constitutional inertness. Honoreen was consequently left to follow the bent of her own girlish impulses. She had no idea of imprisoning herself whenever her legitimate chaperone kept within doors and tormented her brother into becoming her escort, though among the Parisian elite a brother is not exactly regarded as a fitting protector for a high-born maiden. It was on one of these occasions that she first beheld, heard, rapturously admired and formed the acquaintance of the successful debutante. In vain Madame de La Tour chided her niece for an unaristocratic amount of enthusiasm. The peace-loving elder lady had not strength of character to contend against the good-humored willfulness and pretty petulances of the younger, and little by little Honoreen gained complete mastery and established a right to choice of her friends. But this apathetic guardian, whose thoughts and times were somewhat unequally divided between her supposed ailments, her toilette, her lapdogs, and her niece, the last receiving the smallest share, when a favorite end was to be obtained, roused herself sufficiently to exhibit a decided talent for plotting. By the aid of this feminine accomplishment, she did not scruple to work out any desirable consummation. Maneuvering was her sole weapon of power, her scepter over her rebellious subject and relative. She never tried to compel the wayward girl to any course, but she often laid snares to entrap her into paths she had no inclination to tread. We return to the occupants of the boudoir. Honoreen was telling Sylvie how often and how anxiously she had inquired after her, and how kindly Mr. Boudreau had supplied her with bulletins. How I longed to see you while you were ill, cried Honoreen. But there was no managing it, or you certainly would have found me at your side. That tiresome ant of mine, Madame de La Tour, refused to accompany me on what she called one of my romantic expeditions. Though I tried to startle her into acquiescence by threatening to go alone, as I could not induce my brother into your sick room, it was so vexatious. Sylvie wrote her answers on the little slate. They were somewhat brief and constrained until her master was mentioned, and Honoreen described his triumphs in public, his rapidly growing fame, and his popularity among his pupils. Then Sylvie's face grew radiant and no pencil was needed to express her thankfulness and delight. At that moment a firm and manly tread was heard traversing the corridor. The sound went throbbing through Sylvie, as though all her faculties were merged into one sense of hearing. Honoreen, bending her slender throat to glance over her shoulder at the door, exclaimed, Stannislaus, are you there? The marquis de Saint Amar advanced towards Sylvie and her sister, and, after greeting the former cordially, though not with sufficient warmth to embarrass her, saluted Ursul and Metro Mugeau, and entered into the conversation with the latter. Ursul was absorbed in contemplation of the full-length picture of a lovely lady in court attire. She had not ventured to address Mme Moselle de Saint Amar, but now inquired timidly, is that a portrait? The portrait is of my mother, replied Honoreen, rising and joining her. She suddenly remembered that she had wholly neglected Sylvie's humble chaperone and endeavored to atone for her forgetfulness by pointing out and explaining the various subjects that adored the wall. Mugeau also became a listener, and the marquis approached Sylvie, who remained seated. After one or two observations to which she replied upon her slate, he, unreflectingly, or perhaps because it did not seem polite to use an advantage which she did not seem to possess, continued the interchange of remarks by writing. The silence attracted his sister's attention, and, looking around, she saw her brother's pencil rapidly moving over the slate. Why, Stenisloss, have you too lost your voice? She saucily asked. He answered, laughingly, really, I almost fancied that I had, just as a deaf man shouts to his neighbor, thinking that he also cannot hear. Come and listen to the voices of my birds, and make Manoisel Sylvie acknowledge how many of her notes have been stolen from them, said Honoreen, throwing open the glass doors of a spacious conservatory which more nearly resembled a garden. The rarest floral products of all seasons had united in a simultaneous bloom and were planted in beds intersected by winding walks. In the center, a fountain set up out of the mouths of glittering dolphins, jets of waters that fell and diamond showers over the figure of a shell-crowned undine, birds whose green cages were concealed in the branches of oriental trees, warbled among the brows, ignoring their captivity. At the further end, vines of the passionflower, jasmine, and clambering roses mingled together, formed an arbor, the framework of which was invisible through its drapery of foliage and flowers, several rustic chairs stood within the bower. This is my study, said Honoreen, and here is my stool of instruction and repentance. She added, singling out a lilypution chair formed of twisted grapevines. She motioned to Sylvie to be seated, but the raptured girl shook her head and stretched forth her hands toward the brilliant potier, charmed onward by irresistible impulse. Honoreen permitted her guest to wander about at will, while she herself flitted with hummingbird motion from plant to plant, rifling the choicest of their blossoms to make a bouquet. Before it was presented to her young friend, the marquis had gathered one sprig of heliotrope and offered it to Sylvie, bending upon her an earnest gaze that seemed to penetrate into her very heart. Did he mean to discover by her manner whether she remembered that he had once before placed a branch of these sweet-sitted flowers in her hand? If he did, the down-dropping of her eyelids and the sudden crimson that flushed into her cheeks and covered her very brow with its virginal veil must have eloquently answered his inquiry. Honoreen held out the magnificent bouquet she had called. Without lifting her eyes, Sylvie placed the heliotrope in her bosom and took the flowers of her hostess. Noon sounded, and Maître Bourgeois, whose time had now become very valuable, declared that he had not another moment at his command, and they must take their leave. You will surely come again, come soon and come often, said Mademoiselle de Saint-Omar to Sylvie. It will stew you so much good to be in prison here among my birds, who will lend you the music of their voices until you regain the surpassing melody of your own. Will you not insist upon her coming frequently, and will you not accompany her, Mademoiselle Vallette? She added, addressing her soul. Her soul expressed her thanks for the courteous invitation by low reverence without trusting her tongue. It would make me glad to come, wrote Sylvie. And I have a passion for making people glad. That is an additional reason why you should return soon, replied Honoreen. The Marquis handed the ladies into the carriage, but Sylvie's averted eyes were not once again raised to his. The telltale blush, which had treacherously revealed her innermost thoughts, deepened on her cheek beneath the gaze which she felt but could not see. An indivisible sense of shame weighed down her lids. Once more in the secluded little chamber, she sat down and poured over the porcelain slate, reading and rereading characters in her own and another handwriting. I fear it may never be restored, she had written in answer to the very natural hope expressed by the Marquis that she would shortly regain her voice, then followed these words in his hand. If it should not be, if it is gone forever, it would still exist for me. I have never ceased to hear those marvelous tones. Has not your privation been very difficult to endure? The reply, very difficult, was written beneath, then followed in his characters. To those who truly value you, you must only be endeared by such a trial. At that moment Honoreen had interrupted the correspondence. Could Sylvie efface those precious lines? No, oh no. They were too full of consolation. They inspired her with too much hope. They filled her soul with suggestions too delightfully soothing. Ah, surely, she said internally, the sore sorrow must be indurable in an atmosphere of love. I can only bear mine if it endears me to others. So argues every deeply affectionate nature until the sorrow is sent. The fresh spray of heliotrope before its amethyst hue had begun to pale was placed beside the withered sprig. In the narrow compass between the two what happy memories were bounded. Did Sylvie then presume to love the Marquis de Saint-Amare? She would have been startled, almost shocked, if any human being, if even that inward monitor who abruptly propounds the most searching questions had made that inquiry. We must plead guilty to the weakness of believing that love often leaves into existence unawares and with the first impression at first sight. Darning across the awakening soul as the first streak of light flashes over the gray sky of morning and gives assurance of a sun behind which, by and by, will flood the heavens with its meridian splendor. Often that first sunray of love illumines the horizon of maidenhood when as little is known, say by intuition, of the character, mind, and person of him whose hand kindled the prophetic flash as Sylvie knew of the Marquis de Saint-Amare. The one-face haunts, the voice echoes in the ear, palpitating through the spirit. An electric thrill shoots a thwart the frame at the lightest touch of the chosen one's hand. His presence brightens all creation and wings the heaviest hours. The pulses are attuned in harmony to the beating of his. An internal recognition makes the briefest acquaintance seem of long existence and the most incomprehensible and contradictory traits reasonable and natural. All this is very unphilosophical, very absurd, very, except to those who have themselves experienced the sensation. During the next six weeks, Honoreen constantly sent her carriages for Sylvie and her soul and many were the pleasant mornings they passed together. Madame de La Tour could not be said to smile upon this singular intimacy, but she found Sylvie so gentle, ladylike, and unobtrusive, and Honoreen so determined in her infatuation that she did not yet see sufficient cause to take the trouble of laying any of her pleasant little plots to break up their intercourse. The marquee was usually present, though now and then Sylvie came without his being apprised. He had introduced her to his library and often selected choice volumes for her perusal. He was in the habit of reading aloud to his sister, and her two lowly visitors also became his auditors. Sylvie's mind was thus becoming cultivated and her developing taste for literature strengthened every day. What a new world of thought and information was open to her, how she longed to enjoy the full advantages of regular study. Her aptness and quickness were amazing and Honoreen, in spite of her superior requirements, often felt that Sylvie was better able than herself to comprehend the authors with whom they were brought into communion by their self-constitution teachers of Belle Lettre. Sylvie's health was not merely restored, but it was more firmly established than it had ever been before. Her fragile form was gradually rounding and the parlor and cellowness of her complexion had given place to a clear, creamy hue tinged with the faintest rose. Her bearing and manners became more and more polished by contact with the refined beings among whom she moved. To what good could all these captivating changes tend? She no longer carried the little porcelain slate from which certain characters had never been effaced. Honoreen had presented her with ivory tablets, held in a cover of blue enamel upon which, one word, Sylvie, was traced in pearls. A slender gold pencil was suspended from the finely wrought Venetian chain to which the tablets were attached. Sylvie now always wore the chain about her neck and the tablets in her girdle. Pencil and tablets were in frequent requisition for her voice, alas, that remained silent. End of chapter 11 Chapter 12 of The Mute Singer by Anna Korah, moderate Richie. This labor box recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Chapter 12 Renunciation The slumberous eyes of Madame de La Tour did not long remain close to what was passing around her. One of her beloved lap dogs chanced to be ailing. Her niece casually mentioned that Ursul professed to be acquainted with a mode of treatment which would be beneficial to the suffering favorite. The next time that Madame de La Tour heard that Honoreen was receiving her humble guest, anxiety for the health of the overfed pet caused her to seek Ursul in Honoreen's voodooir. The apartment was empty, but through the open doors of the conservatory she beheld Sylvie walking with Marquis de Saint-Amand. Honoreen at some distance, assisted by Ursul, appeared to be securing the cage of a mockingbird to the bow from which it had accidentally been loosened. Madame de La Tour became a looker-on unnoticed. She was struck with the deportment of her nephew towards Sylvie. She marked with what lover-like emphasis he seemed to be talking to her, how tenderly he bent over, until his breath must have fanned her cheek, with what an impassioned gaze his eyes were riveted upon her animated countenance, with what responsive earnestness Sylvie replied to him, sometimes by rapid and significant gestures, sometimes by tracing a few lines upon her ivory tablets. Could it be possible that the nobleman had so far forgotten himself as to be captivated by this believian maiden, to what disgraceful consequences might not such an attachment lead? This ill weed must be nipped in the bud before it could expand into baleful blossoms. A mode affecting this blighting process, which was only too simple, suggested itself to the wily schemer. She would have preferred some more difficult and torturous path by which her talents for maneuvering might have been called into pleasant play. Without having been seen, she noiselessly retired, and on reaching her own apartment rang for a servant and ordered him to seek ma'am Zelle Vallette in the conservatory, and say that his mistress desired a few moments' conversation with her. Ursul, though not a little taken aback by this unprecedented summons, had no alternative but to obey. When she was ushered into the presence of Madame de La Tour, the latter received her with languid hauteur. In her composition there was a large dash of pride and pomposity, which was glossed over by her habitual apathy, until she was roused to action. Motioning Ursul to be seated, she addressed her curtly. Ma'am Zelle Vallette, I expect the object of this interview to be kept secret, especially from my niece. Halle, your word, that this shall be? Ursul timidly replied in the affirmative. Madame de La Tour went on as abruptly as before. It has always been difficult task to guide and control Madame Zelle de Saint Amor, inappropriate as was her association with a young person of Madame Zelle's Sylvie's condition in life. I allowed my niece to receive her without anticipating any unpleasant results. I have reason to believe that this unfortunate girl has been so much flattered and elated by a few unmeaning attentions bestowed upon her chiefly through pity by the Marquis de Saint Amor that it is necessary for her own good to withdraw her from further exposure to the danger of misinterpreting my nephew's courtesy. Little cared Madame de La Tour for Sylvie's well-being, but she took her stand upon this amiable ground, because it was beneath her dignity even to hint that her nephew could have been inspired with an undue interest in the lowly maiden. Ursul was struck dumb. It had never occurred to her that Sylvie could regard one so much above her in any light that was incompatible with his rank and her humility. Now a thousand trivial incidents which had made but little impression at the moment rushed back into her mind and forced the instantaneous conviction that Madame de La Tour had not arrived at an erroneous conclusion. That lady proceeded a little more graciously for she was flattered by the evident effect produced by her harangue. To a person of your apparent good sense it is hardly needful for me to suggest the course which propriety demands. Your mode of action I do not dictate. I shall only look to the result which must be a cessation of this too familiar and unmeaned course. Am I perfectly comprehended? Perfectly Madame, Ursul forced herself to reply. Chaud, mademoiselle, the Saint-Henard inquire why I sent for you. You ought to understand that the object of this interview is solely to consult you about my poor little dog. Who is suffering terribly. I am distressed to death about him. My niece informed me that you expressed an opinion the other day concerning the proper treatment of the dear little martyr. Applause me with your advice on the subject. Madame de La Tour took an asthmatic favorite into her arms with such tender a touch as though it were a sick infant. Ursul endeavored to collect her thoughts and communicated a prescription which had proved very salutary to canine health. Madame de La Tour was quite melted by the anticipated restoration of her curly darling. The less important subject previously disposed of appeared to have faded from her thoughts. Ursul, after giving all the medical information in her power gladly withdrew. With slow steps she returned to honorine's bourgeoisie. The most sorrowful episode of her own life was rising up before her and saddening her anew. In her youth she had given her affections to one who had been forced by family considerations to offer his hand elsewhere. The very remembrance of that cruel wrenching away of the heart which she had endured was filled with intense anguish and she shrank from beholding Sylvie undergoing a similar soul convulsion. What did my aunt want? inquired honorine. The instant Ursul re-entered. Sylvie and the Marquis were still wandering among the flowers. They had not noticed Ursul's brief absence. She desired to learn what opinion I expressed to you concerning the treatment of her lapdog was the evasive answer. Oh, those blessed lapdogs! replied the unsuspecting honorine. If you preserve the life of one of them, Madame de Latour will think that you deserve a pension as a public benefactor. When Ursul and Sylvie returned home that day, the former said with unusual gravity as they reached her door. Come in, Sylvie. I want to talk to you about something of importance. Sylvie complied with a face so bright, so full of hope, so free of care, that Ursul felt like a pitying executioner who does not dare to withhold the blow ordered by a superior power. She laid aside her out-of-door wrappings and sat down. Sylvie threw off her black velvet bonnet, brought a little bench to Ursul's feet, and seated herself, leaning with both arms upon her friend's lap. Ursul found it very difficult to commence the task from which there was no escape. Sylvie was too much engrossed by her own sweet thoughts to notice her troubled look. At last Ursul said, Sylvie, you are quite well now, are you not? Sylvie nodded a glad ascent. We must wait patiently for the restoration of your voice. Sylvie assented again. She was waiting patiently, hopefully, happily. You enjoy your visits to Mademoiselle honorine very much, do you not? Sylvie's expressive look replied that no words could depict how much. The marquee talks to you, reads to you, walks with you in that lovely conservatory, and oh, that is very delightful, resumed Ursul. Sylvie drew a long breath, and her face was diffused with a blush of unmistakable affirmation. Sylvie, my darling, forgive me. It grieves me to the heart to pain you, to force you to reflect, but to what good can this lead? What result can you expect? At those soul-searching questions, the hot blood fled from Sylvie's cheeks and lips, as though it rushed in a lava torrent to protect her heart from some freezing clutch. With the bound of a fawn suddenly roused from serene slumbers by a death-era she sprang to her feet. The all-engrossing present had been so enchanting that she had never once fixed her eyes upon the future. Trembling from head to foot, she stood one moment wildly glancing at Ursul, whose hand had unerringly loose the shaft by which she was transfixed, then dropped down again into her place, and buried her white visage in the compassionate torturer's lap. How much more rapid than light even is thought, which it resembles. Pages would be needed to chronicle the lightning-light reflections which, during the brief silence that ensued, flashed through Sylvie's mind, and illumined recesses for her own heart into which she had never before gazed. Finding that she did not look up, Ursul proceeded. Brave spirits such as yours should have the courage to examine consequences of their own actions. Do not think that I judge you harshly, because I have blown away with rude breath the elusive mist floating before your eyes. The Marquis de Saint Amar is the first gentleman with whom you have ever been acquainted, independent of the superiority of his intellect and the person over those of most men. It is but natural that you should feel attracted towards him, that you should be grateful for his attention, that you should enjoy his society, that alas, yes, it is but too natural that you should give him your heart. Sylvie's head sank deeper into the folds of Ursul's dress. There was another, longer pause, that you do or will love him if you continue to be subjected to the spell of his presence. There is little room to doubt, added Ursul unshrinkingly. She had applied the knife to the disease and must cut deep to reach its core. Perhaps he does or may love you, though that is far less certain. But what good could spring from his love or yours? Sylvie's head swayed from side to side with a despairing motion, which answered, Your stations in life are widely removed. There is such an almost impassable gulf between you that he can never contemplate making you his wife. At these words Sylvie grew as still as though paltz and breath had ceased. Then to entertain a passion for you would simply be an insult, would it not? Still no movement. Sylvie, all I have to add is concentrated in one question. Before that parting, which must come, grows harder for you perhaps for him, for he has a man of genuine and honorable feeling. Should you not save yourself and him future misery by putting an end to this ill-sorted intercourse? Sylvie no longer trembled. Her frame was almost rigid in its calmness. Slowly she raised her ashy face and, looking with steady, unmoistened eyes into her soles bowed ascent. Her countenance appeared to have grown suddenly older. Lines of sorrow and self-reunciation had been plowed into the young brow in a few brief minutes. She took the tablets from her girdle and wrote, Best of friends, you are right. You have made me reflect. You have opened my eyes. I will go there no more. I know you suffer, returned her soul soothingly. I have lived through anguish as poignant in years long past. Sylvie rose with a composure which was full of true dignity and self-respect, embraced her soul gratefully, lifted the velvet bonnet from the bed, and passed with firm steps from the room. When she opened the door of her mother's apartment, she saw Madame de La Roche bending over her work and heard her moaning to herself as she plied her needle. So you have come at last, she murmured fretfully. I have been expecting you for an hour. You stay later and later every time you go, but nobody seems to care how lonely I am. I will keep you company after today. I will help you work tomorrow, wrote Sylvie, and handed the tablets to her mother. What is the matter then? What has happened? How oddly you look. It is not a drop of blood in your face. Have your grand-friends become tired of you? I thought they would. That's the way with them all. It's only what I foresaw. Sylvie wrote the answer. They are as kind as ever, but my holiday as an indolent has been long enough. I am quite well now, and tomorrow I will go back to my sewing until my voice comes back to me. And that will never be, never, never, never, was the consolatory response. Then I must sew on to the end. Sylvie wrote quietly in reply. She left the tablets in her mother's hand and went into her own little chamber. The strong-hearted maiden did not waver in her resolution. The next day she sewed diligently by her mother's side in spite of the constant complaining of the latter who was no better satisfied than before. When Maître Bourjol found his pupil thus employed he accosted her with, What are you doing here? Doubling up your chest in that fashion. What have you to do with needle and thread? She was prepared for this evolution, and with an air of assumed cheerfulness, wrote, I have to earn my livelihood if I can do so, my master. I have been idle too long. Now it is time for my holiday to end. It is time for your folly to end, replied the irritated musician. Hope what this knot sets into your head. Do not be angry with me, wrote Sylvie, but until my voice returns I must use my needle, and if it should never return I shall have nothing but my needle to depend upon. Maître Bourjol was ready to burst out into such a rage as Sylvie had not beheld since her misfortune, but her distressed and pleading look checked him, and he only answered, We shall have to talk to Mademoiselle on a reen about this tomorrow. I have written to tell Mademoiselle to send Mar my determination, wrote Sylvie. I have thanked her for all her kindness and bade her adieu. Our paths henceforth lie apart. Where is the note, inquired Bourjol authoritatively? It is gone, I send it by post, wrote Sylvie. Miserable girl, groaned her master, you want to ruin yourself? You will make Mademoiselle on a reen think of you merely as a poor sewing girl, instead of the brilliant woman of genius, whom she might be proud to take by the hand and her brother too, Sylvie quailed at these last words. Bourjol saw how she shrank and paused, a new light dawned upon him. What has occurred between you and the Marquis, he asked abruptly. Nothing, wrote Sylvie. You have had no misunderstanding. He has not offended you. He has not said or done anything to grieve you. She pointed to the nothing before traced on her tablets as still her answer. When did you come to your present novel resolution? Yesterday, she wrote. And you mean to keep it? My dear master, I do. After Bourjol read these words, she closed the tablets and replaced them in her girdle with an air which announced there was nothing more to be said. Sylvie's inflexibility of purpose and determined composure baffled Bourjol. He could not discover any solution of her enigmatic conduct. While he was pondering, she went to the table, took up his violin, and placed it upon his knees. The action was a petition. Bourjol somewhat softened, said, as he turned to his instrument, When I have reflected, we will talk further about the unreasonable course you have chosen to pursue. Reflection, however, supplied him with no argument that shook Sylvie's constancy. She steadfastly pursued the path she had marked out for herself without one sign of faltering. At times her countenance betrayed that she was passing through a great struggle and gained a great victory, but the combat that tested increased rather than exhausted her mental strength. Honoreen wrote, In treating that she would give some fuller and more comprehensible explanation of her conduct and begging that she would continue her visits, Sylvie replied that it was best there in a course should end. Better at least for herself, she added. In vain Bourjol fumed and scolded and argued, Sylvie was immovable. Strange to say, her melancholy mother gradually grew less despondent. She had said Sylvie's intimacy with those far above her would come to a sudden termination, and it had done so. Her spirits were always brightened by these verifications of her evil predictions. Sylvie's father had not recovered from the depression incident upon his last disappointment and was seldom at home. He had returned to the notary, once more solicited employment and gone to work with unwanted industry. Sylvie's days now appeared to move in a fixed and monotonous circle, but their dull round was less oppressive than might have been imagined. In renouncing self, she gained a serenity which is aligned to cheerfulness. Consoling thoughts were infused into her mind through many a heavenly influx and spoke from lips that even casually addressed her and found voice in the very pages of books she opened. A few lines from one volume in particular haunted yet helped her. These were those words of Thomas Akinthus. If thou seekest this or that and would be here or there to enjoy thine own will and pleasure, thou shalt never be quiet or free from care. And in everything somewhat will be wanting, and in every place there will be some that will cross thee. Every day she became more and more convinced of the truth of those words of wisdom. She must set aside self, must renounce her own will and pleasure to find peace. She must wake from rosy dreams to soften stony realities with the mossy coverings of patience. She must leave the flowery paths of self-gratification and tread with bleeding feet to the flinty ways of duty, confident that by that road alone she could reach the goal of happiness. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of The Mute Singer by Anna Korah-Mawit Ritchie This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor Chapter 13 The Mute Singer The dead combs of life are seldom long of duration, and the winds and waves of circumstance soon ruffle the smooth blank sea of Sylvie's existence. One morning, about a week after the events related in the foregoing chapter, she was sitting alone at her work. Her mother had gone out to breed the fresh air and make a few needful purchases, all at once the tramping of heavy feet upon the stair and the confused murmur of excited voices caused Sylvie to pause and listen. Very tapping sounded at the door. Sylvie opened it and found good-day Manot standing without. Oh, my poor child, my poor child, she sobbed forth in violent agitation. The young girl, alarmed at this tearful greeting, tremblingly turned her eyes in the direction of the heavy tread, which now came nearer. She saw two men carrying a litter, followed by a miscellaneous crowd. A male form was partially visible on the rude couch. She sprang towards it and beheld her father, lying senseless. It might be dead. The blood poured from a deep gash in his forehead, and stained with crimson his ghastly face, his fair hair, and disordered garments. The daughter's rapid glance of horror was followed by a shriek that rang through the long corridor. Rang, yes, rang in one loud, clear note of music. Oh, my father, oh, my father, bring him in. Uttered in the same key, burst upon the startled ears of all present. She had spoken, spoken in song. She had involuntarily, unconsciously, sung the words that rushed to her lips. Everyone stood, petrified. Oh, bring him in, she sang again. The bearers had set down their piteous load. Wonderstruck, they lifted it and obeyed. The monsieur de la roche was laid upon his own bed, his daughter dropped upon her knees at her side, and with steady hand pressing together at the gaping gushing wound, turd to des manaux, singing, Dr. Sylvester Goal, bring him quickly. The concierge was stunned, confounded. It is wonderful, wonderful, she ejaculated, without attempting to stir. The strangers, who had poured into the room, fought this young girl, who sang while a parent lay dead or dying before her, must surely be deprived of reason. Sylvie was too deeply absorbed in contemplation of her father to comprehend the cause of their stupefying amazement. Finding that the concierge did not move, she turned to her again and sang imploringly. Goal, goal, goal! That instant, Matayu, who chanced to be passing the door, made his way through the crowd. Sylvie caught sight of him and sang in a voice of thrilling pathos. Good Matayu, go for Dr. Sylvester, obey him quickly. She has regained her voice. Thank God, thank God! cried the boy. Without heeding his words, she motioned to him impatiently, still singing, Goal, goal, goal! Do you not see he bleeds to death? Matayu darted away, shouting, as she flew down the stairs. She has regained her voice! Mademoiselle Sylvie has regained her voice! He ran against, and nearly overturned, someone who was ascending. It was Metro Bourgeois, who seized him savagely by the shoulders. Do you want me to knock you down, you crazy cripple? Why are you yelling in that frantic fashion? She has regained her voice! Regained her voice! shrieked Matayu, breaking away from him and hurrying on. The boy gave a sharp rap at Ursul's door, and without waiting for her to appear, flung it open and screamed out, She has regained her voice! Her voice! then rushed down the next flight. At the entrance of the house, he encountered Madame de La Roche creeping dolefully along with a basket upon her own. She has regained her voice! Regained her voice! bellowed Matayu joyfully in her ears, and then, with a leap that almost ended in a summer set, he bounded into the street and fled. Madame de La Roche could hardly credit her ears. Regained her voice! That was surely what he said. Whose voice could it be but Sylvie? Excitement imparted strength to limbs that had failed her a moment before, and she rapidly mounted the stairs and entered her own room, only a few moments after Buru and Ursul. What a sight met her eyes! Her husband stretched upon the bed, white as a corpse, and covered with blood. Sylvie, her hands and arms all crimson, kneeling beside him, trying to stem that red current. By holding together the deeply parted flesh from which it spouted, if her fingers for an instant relaxed their pressure, Madame de La Roche staggered towards the couch. The moment Sylvie beheld her, she sang, Mother, he lives, he has but fainted. If we can only staunch his blood, all will be well. Sylvie, Sylvie, was all her mother could gas forth. Are you his wife? Ask one of the men who had carried the litter. Yes, yes, how did this happen? He was thrown from a horse. I was passing when the spirited creature flung him over her head. I recognized the animal, a splendid gray mare, which a friend of mine has for sale. It was through my friend the owner that we discovered who this gentleman was and were unable to carry him home. It's a sad accident, for that's an ugly cut, and I fear your troubles don't end here. I am afraid the shock of seeing her father in this terrible condition has unsettled your daughter's mind, added the man, looking pityingly at Sylvie. Before Madame de La Roche could reply, Matayu re-entered with Dr. Suvestor, whom he had fortunately encountered a few paces from the door. When Sylvie saw the physician, she sang, Can you not staunch this blood? Oh, lose no time, or he will die. It is true then, she has regained her voice. Most marvellous, ejaculated the doctor, gazing at her in astonishment, without regarding her father. For heaven's sake, lose no time, or he will die. Saying Sylvie, her beseeching intonation recalled the doctor to himself, and he proceeded to examine, cleanse, and sew up the wound. During the process he asked Sylvie several necessary questions, to which she replied, as before, in song. Metro bourgeois had sunken into a chair, completely overpowered by rapturous emotion. His hands were tightly clasped, his eyes upraised with an expression of beatitude, and tears ran in rapid showers down his withered cheeks. Ursul laughed and cried by turns, yet had sufficient presence of mind to assist Sylvie, who was diligently aiding the doctor, now lifting up the matted locks, which he unsparingly severed from her father's temples, now holding the water in sponge, now sewing bandages and handling pins. Matayu capered about the room, crying in the ears of everyone who came his way. She has regained her voice. She has regained her voice. Do you not hear? Do you not hear? The blood was staunch. The wound sewed. The head bound up. Monsieur de La Roche opened his eyes, but seeing his daughter bending over him, feebly murmured, Sylvie. My father, she sang and replied, Good heavens! Is that you, Sylvie? Or am I dreaming? What is this? Who are these people? He asked with a confused look. My daughter, is it really you? Yes, father, it is I. Again she answered, singing. And your voice has restored gracious heavens. Is it possible? Sylvie, with a convulsive start, which told that she had not until that moment become aware of the joyful fact, replied with a trill of such power, sweetness and flexibility, that bourgeois leaped from his seat, vehemently clapping his hands, and shouting, Bravo, Bravo, Bravo! In uncontrollable ecstasy, Monsieur de La Roche had lifted himself upon his elbow and cried out with his old enthusiasm, Why, what a set of miserable croakers you've all been! Even you, Doctor, you see, she can speak, she can sing, she has regained that glorious voice, which you all told me was gone forever. Now all will be right again. What a pity that gray mare was too spirited for my purpose. There was no managing that meddlesome creature. She was a beauty and a bargain. Thinking I might buy and buy contrived to purchase her, I gave her a trial, but she threw me. But it won't matter. I'm not much worse for the trouble, and she has her equals in the market. As he was running on, thus hopefully, his eyes rested upon the musician. Ah, bourgeois, my dear fellow, are you there? Let Monsieur Le Grand know at once that Sylvie will sing for him tomorrow, tonight, when he wishes. Will you not, child? Sylvie, now quite composed, tried to syllable yes, but alas, the sound died away in a hoarse whisper. With a look of blank consternation, she added almost inaudibly, My voice, my voice is gone again. Then how they all gathered around her, with the sudden, sickening revulsion of feeling that follows hope change to despair. Can you not speak? Try, try again, said Bourgeois, tenderly taking her hand, still red with the gory stain. She shook her head mournfully. Grief and disappointed sealed every lip. At last the silence was broken by Dr. Sylvester, who exclaimed as though a thought had just struck him. You did not speak before you were singing, not speaking when I entered. Try to sing again. Sylvie broke forth with that beautiful anthem from Handel's Messiah. But thou didst not leave his soul. And while her entranced auditors listened in dumb wonder, she sang the whole air with the most faultless vocalization. This is very extraordinary. The first case of the kind that has ever come under my notice, said the young practitioner, who always talked as if he had the experience of half a century or more, is obvious that only the vocal chords used in speaking are injured. Those called into action when she sings are unimpaired. Her great gift remains. She will be able to resume her profession, exclaimed Bourgeois, in a tone of mingled affirmation and interrogation. Yes, assuredly, replied the physician. Who could attempt to describe the holy rapture that rendered Sylvie's face luminous? The burst of joy that greeted the doctor's words was suddenly checked. Monsieur de la Roche, exhausted by emotion and loss of blood, sank back insensible. The doctor preemptorily ordered the apartment to be cleared of all but Sylvie, her mother, and her soul. Bourgeois and Matayu seemed inclined to linger not from any deep interest in the patient, but because they could not forego the delight of again hearing Sylvie's long silent voice. An impatient gesture from Dr. Syvestre caused the musician to seize hold of the hunchback with a rough friendliness, which showed their bond of union was drawn closer by this mutual joy and hurray with him out of the apartment. Monsieur de la Roche was restored to consciousness with difficulty, and when his heavy eyes once more unclosed, the breath came slowly through his white and parted lips. It was apparent that his mind wandered and his pulse gave indication of fever. Madame de la Roche was almost excusable for her piteous lamentation. Alas, alas, the shadow of joy never comes to us except hand in hand with tangible sorrow. Dr. Syvestre administered an opiate and gave strict orders that the patient should remain undisturbed. He soon sank into a heavy slumber. Sylvie, in passing the old piano so long closed, threw it open by an irresistible impulse, but without allowing her fingers to wander over the yellow keys, she softly closed the lid again and stole to her own chamber to give her heart full vent in that holy communing that heightened her every joy and lessened her every sorrow. End of chapter 13.