"Here you are taking all the pleasure out of that poor child's little love-affair, going about as you do." "There are other things besides love-affairs," said Sylvia, in a strange, monotonous tone, almost as if she were deaf and dumb, and had no knowledge of inflections.

"There are affairs between the soul and its Maker that are more important than love betwixt men and women." Sylvia did not look at Henry.

She still gazed straight ahead, with that expression of awful self-review.

The thought crossed Henry's mind that she was more like some terrible doll with a mechanical speech than a living woman.

He went up to her and took her hands.
They were lying stiffly on her lap, in the midst of soft white cambric and lace--some bridal lingerie which she was making for Rose.
"Look here, Sylvia," said Henry, "you don't mean that you are fretting about--what you told me ?" "No," said Sylvia, in her strange voice.
"Then what-- ?" Sylvia shook off his hands and rose to her feet.