I sleep late the next morning, and, when I wake, Sylvia is gone. I rub my eyes and look again. There is no doubt of the fact—her bed is empty, her boots have vanished, she is certainly gone. I gaze around in mute amazement. In all the twenty years that I have had the pleasure of her acquaintance, such a thing has never happened before—that, of her own accord—without the most stringent outside pressure—Sylvia should rise with the lark. While I make my toilet, I wonder what this strange caprice can possibly mean, and it is not until I am nearly dressed that the mystery is solved. Then the door opens, and the pleasant, dusky face of our chambermaid appears. She has come to tell me that “the gentleman” wants to know if I am ready for breakfast. The gentleman in question is Eric, so I reply that I shall be ready presently. “You can hand me a necktie,” I add; “and pray, Malvina, do you know what has become of my sister?” Malvina is evidently surprised. She pauses on her way to the trunk and stares at me. “I thought you would have heard the young lady, ma’am,” she replies, “though it’s true she was very careful not to make a noise to disturb you. I waked her at five o’clock, and she went to ride.” “To ride!” I exclaim. “With whom?” “I think she called the gentleman Mr.—Mr. Dewpan,” answers Malvina. Then I remember that there were signs of a secret understanding between Sylvia and Victor Dupont the night before, and, when they parted, I caught the words “sunrise” and “Beaucatcher”—but I was too sleepy to give them due weight, or to be equal to that mathematical calculation known as putting two and two together. Now every thing is plain. “Sunrise—ah!” I say to myself. “Not difficult to understand what that means!” Leaving my room, I meet Aunt Markham issuing from hers, and as we go down-stairs together I tell her of Sylvia’s escapade. She is surprised and concerned. “To mount a strange horse—how rash! She may be thrown—there may be a terrible accident—who knows whether Mr. Dupont understands horses?” “He is old enough to understand them,” I say—and just then a cheery voice speaks above us: “Good-morning, madame! Good-morning, mademoiselle. Ah, what a charming day—is it not?—how cool, how fresh, how delicious!” We glance up. Descending the stairs is Madame Latour—Adèle Dupont’s aunt—a vivacious lady, with dark eyes, a sallow complexion, and a foot like a fairy. “It is pleasant to think that, while we have been sleeping, those dear young people have been enjoying the first freshness of this delightful morning!” she goes on, after we have returned her greeting. “Chère petite Adèle was so eager about her ride that she must have waked at five o’clock. I saw them off from my window. Ah, it was heavenly—the air sweet, the birds singing!—and then I returned to bed like a sluggard.”