She went up to him, and knelt by him fondly. She smoothed the black hair off the pale forehead with a sweet sense of familiarity. She had felt constrained by a maiden diffidence from any of those caresses that a woman sometimes bestows on the man she loves. She never remembered having touched his hair before until that very afternoon, when he had made that remark about his grey hairs. Yes, there were plenty. She passed the locks through her fingers--it was soft and rich, although beginning to lose its perfect blackness. She examined his face carefully; it was so clear cut--she had never seen a mouth and chin and nose more delicately and finely outlined. “He is not really handsome,” she said to herself, looking at him with ineffable tenderness; “but people had eyes for nobody else when he was before them. And how strangely young he looks! and so like Lewis!” For the wonderful youthfulness which death sometimes restores to the human countenance made Skelton and Lewis most extraordinarily alike at that moment. “And how happy we should have been!” she continued, half aloud. “I meant to have made him love me more through that boy. I took very meekly the love he gave me, because I knew the time would come when it would be all mine--all--all. It came at the very moment that we were forever parted.” Sylvia bent down to kiss the cold face, and suddenly drew back, blushing redly, and looking about to see if she was watched--it had so entirely escaped her that this was not Skelton. She put her warm young arms around his neck, and kissed him a dozen times, when in a moment the coldness, the horrible insensibility before her penetrated her heart. She darted up and ran wildly to the door, almost knocking Conyers over, who was just about to enter. She seized his hand, and, trembling violently, cried out: “I was just a moment ago in love with a corpse--with a dead man, who could not open his eyes or feel or hear anything; and was it not most unnatural and horrible? Pray, let us go--” Conyers caught her cold hands in his, and the words he was about to speak died on his lips, so much did Sylvia’s face appal him. She flew out of the house, across the lawn, and was almost at the bridge before Conyers caught up with her. “You will kill yourself,” he said breathlessly, but Sylvia only sped on. There had been no sleep at Belfield that night. A messenger had been sent to Mr. and Mrs. Shapleigh, but they could not get home before morning. As Sylvia rushed into the house as if pursued, Conyers said: “Let me send for Mrs. Blair.” “No, I will be alone,” answered Sylvia. “God will be with you,” said Conyers.