her by the sweet and fanciful name, which, appropriate as it was to her
character, was known only to him,--Sylvia grasped Mrs. Grosvenor's arm,
while her whole frame shook with the throbbing of her heart.

"Who is it?" gasped she. "Who calls me Sylph?"

Before Mrs. Grosvenor could reply, the stranger entered the room, bearing
the lamp in his hand. Approaching the sofa, he displayed to Sylvia the
features of Edward Hamilton, illuminated by that evil smile, from which
his face derived so marked an individuality.

"Is not the miniature an admirable likeness?" inquired he.

Sylvia shuddered, but had not power to turn away her white face from his
gaze. The miniature, which she had been holding in her hand, fell down
upon the floor, where Hamilton, or Vaughan, set his foot upon it, and
crushed the ivory counterfeit to fragments.

"There, my sweet Sylph," he exclaimed. "It was I that created your
phantom-lover, and now I annihilate him! Your dream is rudely broken.
Awake, Sylph Etherege, awake to truth! I am the only Edgar Vaughan!"

"We have gone too far, Edgar Vaughan," said Mrs. Grosvenor, catching
Sylvia in her arms. The revengeful freak, which Vaughan's wounded vanity
had suggested, had been countenanced by this lady, in the hope of curing
Sylvia of her romantic notions, and reconciling her to the truths and
realities of life. "Look at the poor child!" she continued. "I protest
I tremble for the consequences!"

"Indeed, madam!" replied Vaughan, sneeringly, as he threw the light of