Yet she certainly was improving in health. Her step became more assured, her eye less languid, and her complexion cleared up to the hopeful tints of renewed bodily vigor. Her slender hands filled out a trifle; and sometimes she would take a book, as if she needed an interest beside her own sombre thoughts to while away the hours. So Sylvie established her easel, and had recourse to painting. Oddly enough she began to ask herself what it was all for? Filling her own rooms, and bestowing gifts upon friends, was very well for a season; but was there not a higher purpose in all art, or at least a wider purpose? It surely did not tend to isolation. She thought of her winter in Philadelphia,--of the friends she had made, of the desires that had been awakened. She longed for some purpose, some sympathy and aim. The enthusiasms of girlhood could no longer inspire her: there must be a reality and definite end, or work lost its great charm. How was she to get to this? Her aunt was coming to depend upon her in a peculiar way, that at times startled Sylvie. She would say, with her quiet, tender smile, "Will you do this or that, Sylvie? I believe I am growing indolent: I never thought to so like being waited upon." The secret in Miss Barry's soul was well kept. In how many lives there comes a demand for heroism greater than that which led the martyrs of old to the stake, or the brave women in the reign of terror to the guillotine! Their inspiration to bravery was patent to all around: their cause was a lofty one, and they were apostles of that high creed of self-abnegation which leaves behind a memory in the hearts of all noble men and women. But there are other pangs quite noiseless: there are other martyrs who suffer without the sign, who cannot even confess the reason for the high faith that upholds them. It was quite natural that she should desire to see Sylvie married. She could never get over her distaste of having women taking bold strides for the world's fame and favor. If left alone, this was what Sylvie would surely do. The delicate womanly charities and kindnesses that had filled up so much of her life would not satisfy her niece. And, now that she had brought herself to the point of satisfaction with Jack Darcy, either she had mistaken their regard, or he was proving himself an indifferent lover. By a subtile intuition, she understood that Fred still cared for her, nay, that he held now a reverent admiration that he had never thought of in the past. His melancholy eyes followed her about, now and then scintillating sparks of passion that seemed almost to rend his soul. She experienced an intense and exquisite sympathy for him that drew them together in a manner that he felt, and was grateful for, but did not clearly understand.