Before the close of summer, it was told Sylvia Etherege that Vaughan had
arrived from France, and that she would meet him--would meet, for the
first time, the loved of years--that very evening. We will not tell how
often and how earnestly she gazed upon the miniature, thus endeavoring to
prepare herself for the approaching interview, lest the throbbing of her
timorous heart should stifle the words of welcome. While the twilight
grew deeper and duskier, she sat with Mrs. Grosvenor in an inner
apartment, lighted only by the softened gleam from an alabaster lamp,
which was burning at a distance on the centre-table of the drawing-room.
Never before had Sylph Etherege looked so sylph-like. She had communed
with a creature of imagination, till her own loveliness seemed but the
creation of a delicate and dreamy fancy. Every vibration of her spirit
was visible in her frame, as she listened to the rattling of wheels and
the tramp upon the pavement, and deemed that even the breeze bore the
sound of her lover's footsteps, as if he trode upon the viewless air.
Mrs. Grosvenor, too, while she watched the tremulous flow of Sylvia's
feelings, was deeply moved; she looked uneasily at the agitated girl, and
was about to speak, when the opening of the street-door arrested the
words upon her lips.

Footsteps ascended the staircase, with a confident and familiar tread,
and some one entered the drawing-room. From the sofa where they sat, in
the inner apartment, Mrs. Grosvenor and Sylvia could not discern the
visitor.

"Sylph!" cried a voice. "Dearest Sylph! Where are you, sweet Sylph
Etherege? Here is your Edgar Vaughan!"

But instead of answering, or rising to meet her lover,--who had greeted