which she seemed to vanish.

"Yes," he said, to Mrs. Grosvenor. "I can scarcely deem her of the
earth, earthy. No wonder that I call her Sylph! Methinks she will fade
into the moonlight, which falls upon her through the window. Or, in the
open air, she might flit away upon the breeze, like a wreath of mist!"

Sylvia's eyes grew yet brighter. She waved her hand to Edgar Vaughan,
with a gesture of ethereal triumph.

"Farewell!" she said. "I will neither fade into the moonlight, nor flit
away upon the breeze. Yet you cannot keep me here!"

There was something in Sylvia's look and tones that startled Mrs.
Grosvenor with a terrible apprehension. But, as she was rushing towards
the girl, Vaughan held her back.

"Stay!" cried he, with a strange smile of mockery and anguish. "Can our
sweet Sylph be going to heaven, to seek the original of the miniature?"