In the big, rudely carved chair Sylvie leaned back her head and
pressed her hands to her unseeing eyes. She was not sorry that Hugh
had left her, for she was oppressed and unnerved by her own emotions.
Until he had kissed her hair, she had not known that she loved him--or
rather loved an invisible presence that had enveloped her in an
atmosphere of sympathy, of protection, that had painted itself, so
to speak, in heroic colors and proportions against her darkness, that
had revealed both strength and tenderness in touch and movement, and
warm, deep voice.

For until now Sylvie's life had been entirely lacking in protection
and tenderness; she had never known sympathy--her natural romanticism
had been starved. The lacks in her life Hugh had supplied the more
lavishly because he was aided, in her blindness, by the unrestricted
powers of her fancy. But now in all the fervor of this, Sylvie felt,
also for the first time, the full bitterness of her blindness. If
she could see him--if only once! If she could see him!

And there came to Sylvie unreasonably, disconnectedly, a keen memory
of Pete's embrace when he had caught her up from falling on the
hearth. A boy of fourteen? Strange that he should be so strong, that
his heart should beat so loud, that his arms should draw themselves
so closely, so powerfully about her. What were they really like, these
people who moved unseen around her and who exerted such great power
over her sudden helplessness?

She got up and began to walk to and fro restlessly, gropingly across
the room. She wished now that Hugh would come back. He had been with
her so constantly that she had grown utterly dependent upon him. The
dense red fog that lay so thick about her, frightened her when Hugh