blazing on the hearth—­Sylvie sprang up to push it back, and Aubrey to assist her,—­and then, strange to relate—­only the occult influences of attraction know how it happened—­the little difficulty of the burning ember brought those two other burning embers of humanity together—­for Aubrey, hardly conscious of what he did, caught Sylvie’s swaying, graceful figure as she rose from bending over the fire, closely in his arms, with a passion which mounted like a wave to tempest height, and knew no further hesitation or obstacle.

“Sylvie!  Sylvie!  I love you!—­my darling!  I love you!—­”

No answer came, for there was none needed.  Her face was hidden on his breast—­but he felt rather than saw the soft white arms and dainty hands moving tremblingly upwards, till they closed round him in the dear embrace which meant for him from henceforth the faith and love and devotion of one true heart through all the sorrows and perplexities as well as the joys and triumphs of life.  And when, with his heart beating, and all his pulses thrilling with the new ecstacy that possessed him, he whispered a word or two that caused the pretty golden head to raise itself timidly—­the beautiful dark blue eyes to grow darker with the tenderness that overflowed the soul behind them, and the sweet lips to meet his own in a kiss, as soft and fragrant as though a rose had touched them, it was small blame to him that for a moment he lost his self-possession, and drawing her closer in his arms, showered upon her not only kisses, but whispered words of all that tender endearment which is judged as “foolish” by those who have never had the privilege of being made the subject of such priceless and exquisite “fooling.”  And when they were calmer, and began to think of the possibility of the worthy Bozier suddenly recovering from her neuralgia and coming to look after her pupil,—­or the undesired but likely entrance of a servant to attend to the lamps, or to put fresh wood on the fire, they turned each from the other, with reluctance and half laughing decorum,—­Sylvie resuming her seat by the fire, and Aubrey flinging himself with happy recklessness in a low fauteuil as near to her as could be permitted for a gentleman visitor, who might be considered as enthusiastically expounding literature or science to a fascinating hostess.  And somehow, as they talked, their conversation did gradually drift from passionate personalities into graver themes affecting wider interests, and Aubrey, warming into eloquence, gave free vent to his thoughts and opinions, till noticing that Sylvie sat very silent, looking into the fire somewhat gravely, he checked himself abruptly, fancying that perhaps he was treading on what might be forbidden ground with her whose pleasure was now his law.  As he came to this sudden pause, she turned her soft eyes towards him tenderly, with a smile.

“Well!” she said, in the pretty foreign accent which distinguished her almost perfect English, “And why do you stop speaking?  You must not be afraid to trust me with your closest thoughts,—­because how can our love be perfect if you do not?”