“It is rather a beautiful world, isn’t it?” Sylvia said a little wistfully.

“To the favoured few—­yes,” said Mrs. Merston.

Sylvia gave her a quick glance.  “I read somewhere—­I don’t know if it’s true—­that we are all given the ingredients of happiness, but the mixing is left to ourselves.  Perhaps you and I haven’t found the right mixture yet.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Merston.  “Perhaps not.”

“I’m going to have another try,” said Sylvia, with sudden energy.

“I wish you luck,” said Mrs. Merston somewhat grimly.

CHAPTER IV

MIRAGE

From the day of her visit to the Merstons Sylvia took up her old life again, and pursued all her old vocations with a vigour that seemed even more enthusiastic than of yore.  Her ministrations to Guy had ceased to be of an arduous character, or indeed to occupy much of her time.  It was mainly Burke who filled Kieff’s place and looked after Guy generally with a quiet efficiency that never encouraged any indulgence.  They seemed to be good friends, yet Sylvia often wondered with a dull ache at the heart if this were any more than seeming.  There was so slight a show of intimacy between them, so little of that camaraderie generally so noticeable between dwellers in the wilderness.  Sometimes she fancied she caught a mocking light in Guy’s eyes when they looked at Burke.  He was always perfectly docile under his management, but was he always genuine?  She could not tell.  His recovery amazed her.  He seemed to possess an almost boundless store of vitality.  He cast his weakness from him with careless jesting, laughing down all her fears.  She knew well that he was not so strong as he would have had her believe, that he fought down his demon of suffering in solitude, that often he paid heavily for deeds of recklessness.  But the fact remained that he had come back from the gates of death, and each day she marvelled anew.

She and Burke seldom spoke of him when together.  That intangible reserve that had grown up between them seemed to make it impossible.  She had no longer the faintest idea as to Burke’s opinion of the returned prodigal, whether he still entertained his previous conviction that Guy was beyond help, or whether he had begun at length to have any confidence for the future.  In a vague fashion his reticence hurt her, but she could not bring herself to attempt to break through it.  He was a man perpetually watching for something, and it made her uneasy and doubtful, though for what he watched she had no notion.  For it was upon herself rather than upon Guy that his attention seemed to be concentrated.  His attitude puzzled her.  She felt curiously like a prisoner, though to neither word, nor look, nor deed could she ascribe the feeling.  She was even at times disposed to put it down to the effect of the weather upon her physically.  It did undoubtedly