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Sylvia Brooke

Material Information

Title:
Sylvia Brooke
Creator:
Capes, M. Harriet M
Blackie & Son ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
London ;
Glasgow ;
Edinburgh ;
Publisher:
Blackie and Son
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
95, 8 p. : ill. ; 17 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Brothers and sisters -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Accidents -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Family -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Promises -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Friendship -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Rescues -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1890
Genre:
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
Scotland -- Glasgow
Scotland -- Edinburgh
Ireland -- Dublin
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Frontispiece printed in colors.
Statement of Responsibility:
by M. Harriet M. Capes.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026613003 ( ALEPH )
ALG3294 ( NOTIS )
180702290 ( OCLC )

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CONTENTS.

CHAP.
I. In Diseracez,

II. Sytvia’s FRrienps, .
III. Toe Broxen Promise,
IV. In Fartzy Woop, .

V. Teppy’s Dornes,

VI. Synvia’s TRIUMPH, .

36

47

75

84












SYLVIA BROOKE.

CHAPTER L

IN DISGRACE,

P E bright autumn morning a little girl stood
(ey gazing somewhat dolefully out of the nursery

a window into the street below. The street
ran through the pleasant village of Woodleigh, and
was a very bright and cheerful-looking street too, for
in it was transacted all the small business concerns of
the little place; in fact the village might be described
as having its beginning as well as its end in this one
street, The one butcher, the baker, the grocer—who,
in addition to his proper goods, sold crockery and
‘tinware—all had their shops here; not to speak of
that one most beloved and frequented of the more
juvenile portion of the population—the little general
shop, where Hannah Webb displayed a tempting store
of bull’s-eyes, peppermints, tops and toys, judiciously



8 SYLVIA BROOKE,

varied with tapes and buttons, thread, cotton and
wool for thrifty housewives, in addition to a hundred
trifles too numerous to be described.

Here, pressing their noses against the small diamond-
paned window, the youth of Woodleigh spent many
a happy and exciting hour in the discussion of how
the sum of one penny, belonging to a single fortunate
member of the nose-flattened group, might be spent
to the greatest advantage; the whole troop, as a rule,
when the momentous question had been decided,
accompanying the owner of the said penny into the
dark little shop, listening with grave consideration
to his or her request for a penn’orth of bull’s-eyes, or
a ha’porth of peppermint and a sheet of theatrical
characters—still to be obtained in that obscure village
—and fixing solemn, attentive eyes on Hannah as
she weighed out the goodies, as though it were the
first time they had happened to see the performance,
whereas it was repeated daily, and many times a day,
before their eyes as purchasers, or for their entertain-
ment as they peered through the lattice.

Here, too, the good wives of the village spent many
a delightful hour of gossip and criticism of one
another’s doings, husbands, children, and general
affairs, while they turned over and made their bargains
from Mrs. Webb’s modest store of haberdashery,
generally parting from her well pleased with both her
and themselves; since nothing gives one such a pleasant



IN DISGRACE. 9

feeling of superior merit as criticising one’s neighbour
with a sympathizing friend; and Hannah Webb was
too wary a confidante not to agree with each critic in
her turn—that is to say, with the last speaker.
“Law!” she would say, “it’s turn and turn about, and
nobody the worse!”

This was indeed the fact, for the village housewives
lived in great amity and good-will with one another as
a rule, and if Mrs. Barnwell did think Mrs. Turner
ought to be ashamed’ of herself for letting that great
gal of hers flaunt out on a Sunday in a hat with a
great orstrich feather as might a done for Miss Sylvia,
but was a deal too fine for the likes of Sally Turner;
and if Mrs. Turner, hearing of the remark, hastened to
retort that anyhow her ’usband spent his wages on his

own family, and not at’ the White ’orse, like some
people’s ’ushands she could mention if so minded,—
still, these little amenities were soon forgotten, and
Mrs, Barnwell and Mrs. Turner would meet at the
‘Mothers’ Tea,” which was given each Christmas by
Mrs. Burton, the rector’s wife, and talk to each other
just as amiably and copiously as they drank their
hot, sweet tea, and ate their thick plum-cake and
bread and butter.

At the end of the village street, where it began to
lose itself in the country road that ran its way for
many miles, dusty in the heat and muddy in the rains,
stood the smithy, a long, low, dusky shed, with its



10 SYLVIA BROOKE.

heart of living fire ever and anon blazing up into
fierce flame under the breath of the bellows, whence
all day long came the familiar yet always new and
entrancing clink of iron beaten on the anvil. Under
the smithy eaves, watching the flying sparks, and
listening to the iron music, were always to be found
such of the village children as home, or school, or the
delights of Hannah Webb’s window left at liberty for
the unfailing charms of the shaping of the glowing
horse-shoe, the rhythmical swing ‘and beat of the ham-
mer, and the smith’s kind blackéned face and muscular
arms.

At the other end of the village, where the village
street led into the high-road to Winston, the county
town three or four miles away, stood half-a-dozen or
more houses of some pretensions; one or two so close
to the red brick footpath that passing walkers there
could look straight into their lower windows, others
a little back, and approached by green doors, set in
the high walls that hid their first stories. Over these
walls, ivy and Virginia creeper and climbing roses had
straggled from the gardens within, and greeted the
passer-by with their beauty and scent, or deluged
him with rain-drops should he walk unwarily beneath
their garlands after a shower.

It was from an upper window in one of these wall-
enclosed houses that the Miss Sylvia, who had been
thought worthy of Sally Turner’s “orstrich” feather,



IN DISGRACE. 11

gazed disconsolate on the bright autumn morning I
spoke of.

Her wistful dark eyes were not looking either up or
down the village street, neither towards the forge to
her right, nor towards Hannah Webb’s little shop to
her left, although both these spots held a high place
in her affections; they were fixed on a neat dog-cart
which stood in the road just opposite the green door
belonging to her home, the spirited horse pawing the
ground as if impatient to be off with his master to the
town, while Job, the groom, stood by, patting his
glossy neck.

And Sylvia was not going! She was in dis-
grace,

Sylvia Brooke was an only daughter, though not an
only child; her brother Geoffrey, a boy of eleven, and
a little baby brother eighteen months old, shared her
home and her father and mother’s love—shared, but
in very unequal proportions.

Mrs. Brooke adored and spoiled her handsome, fair-
haired, pink-cheeked boy, a good and honest lad in
the main, who showed fewer evil effects of his mother’s
unwise petting than might have been expected; and
as to the Baby Teddy, surely there never had been or
would be such a baby before or again. Its mother at
least thought so, and since many other mothers have
thought the same of other babies, it must be concluded
that babies, as a race, are more of the nature of pro-



12 SYLVIA BROOKE,

digies than the surprising numbers in which they visit
‘this earth would seem to show.

But for her little slender, dark-skinned, dark-eyed
daughter Mrs. Brooke had no such admiring worship.
The love she bore her was of a very different character,
and such as gave but little sense of warmth to the
child’s sensitive nature.

Sylvia had never forgotten how—sitting apart with
her doll, silent and attentive, while her mother talked
with a visitor—she had heard her say in answer to
some question, “Oh, you know I don’t care about
girls,”

Miss Milner, the visitor, a young lady with a pretty
bright young face and blue eyes, which the little girl
had been gazing at with the admiration which even in

childhood we feel for personal charms we do not our-

selves possess, looked quickly round at the child, as if
imagining that her mother must have spoken in ignor-
ance of her presence; but Mrs. Brooke’s languid, “Oh,
you need not mind Sylvia; she does not notice. If it
were Geoffrey now—but he is so unusually intelligent
for his age!” undeceived her.

This was some years ago, for Sylvia was nine years
old now; but she had not forgotten that her mother
did not “care about girls;” nor had she forgotten
either that when she said good-bye that day, Miss
Milner had put her arm round her and kissed her as
her own mother but seldom did.



IN DISGRACE. 13

Children’s hearts are deep and very silent, and even
the tenderest comprehension and sympathy find it
difficult to fathom their inmost unformed thoughts
and hopes and fears-— Mrs. Brooke had never even
attempted to fathom her little daughter’s. Poor
woman! It was not that she was really unkind or cruel;
she would have resented vehemently any accusation
of injustice in the division of her love for her children;
probably she would have shed tears over it—for she
was given to tears, being a delicate, languid sort of
woman, with a great reputation for being gentle and
“ladylike,” and a secret contempt for women who
were of stronger or juster nature. “Sylvia was really
such an odd child,” she would have said; “so vehe-
ment and impulsive at times, at others so moody
and ill-tempered, you never knew how to manage
her.”

If you had answered that perhaps the child needed
a little of the wealth of love lavished on her brother,
yearned, without knowing what she wanted, for a
hearty motherly kiss, a tender “God bless you, dear!”
such as Geoffrey won often and often from his mother’s
lips, she would probably have repeated fretfully that
Sylvia was such an odd child, so different to Geoff
with his affectionate ways, so talkative and excitable
at one time, so silent and dull at others.

And it was all true; Sylvia was quite different from
her brother, she was impulsive and vehement at







14 SYLVIA BROOKE.

times, and moody and ill-tempered at others; but in
her mother’s heart there was not the qudentandieg
love for her that would have brought forth and
fostered the best in her, and helped her to fight
against the worst. And stranger still, Mrs. Brooke
had. no conception of the loving depths in her little
daughter’s heart, and looked upon her‘as a far from
affectionate child; so blind did her want of sym-
pathetic insight make her.

Even the child’s appearance—her clear olive skin,
her curly black hair, her large liquid eyes which could
widen into soft clear radiance, or dart passionate
glances, or cloud over moodily; her spare, light little
figure—told against her with her mother, whose
beauty, considerable in her youth, was of the soft
pink-and-white kind which charms by its suggestion
of flowers and all soft and dainty things.

Mrs. Brooke was no longer very young, but much
of her prettiness remained, and her complexion had
been inherited by Geoffrey and the baby Teddy, while
poor Sylvia had carried her “oddity” even into her
face and form and was as dark as a gypsy.

“The image of the Vernons!” sighed Mrs. Brooke
to her mother, who was paying her a visit. (Mr.
Brooke’s mother had been a Vernon, and little Sylvia’s
colouring had come to her direct from her maternal
grandmother, skipping a generation; for Mr. Brooke,
like his wife, was fair, and had been pink and white



IN DISGRACE. 15

in his youth). “TI can’t think how John and I can
have had such a dark child—so fair as we both are.
It is very provoking. People tell me Sylvia will be a
beauty—a real brunette beauty. I can assure you Mr.
Evelyn raves about her eyes—positively raves; but I
must confess I fail to see it. I never could admire
that dusky sort of complexion. It seems to me so
unladylike—almost unwomanly, indeed.”

“Nonsense, Emily!” answered her mother, a hand-
some elderly lady, the image of what her daughter
would be at her age, but with a great deal more
energy and decision in face and manner than Mrs.
Brooke’s life of languid delicacy was likely to de-
velop. ‘Nonsense, Emily! the child’s well enough;
and she’s a perfect little lady anyhow, whatever her
complexion is. Besides, there’s no need to puzzle your
head overmuch about how she came by her dark skin,
Look at John’s mother—Sylvia will be her Grand-
mother Brooke over again.”

Mrs. Brooke sighed; John’s admiration for his
mother’s appearance remained a sore point with her.
Let him be as fond of her as ever he liked; indeed she
had nothing to say against her, she was as kind a
mother-in-law as any woman could wish for—but she
could not help feeling that, with a wife of such
exquisite colouring and generally refined appearance
' as a standard of fémale excellence, John was not
justified in keeping to his opinion that his mother was





16 SYLVIA BROOKE.

the finest lady and the best-looking woman of her age
in the world.

In fact, in his secret heart, I think John felt
glad that his little daughter took her looks from his
mother instead of his fair-skinned wife or his ruddy
self.

Sylvia’s father owned the deepest love and alle-
giance of Sylvia’s childish heart—quite unknown to
him for a long time. Mr. Brooke was a happy-natured,
cheerful man, a kind and attentive husband if at
times a little given to laugh at his wife’s languid ways
and over-refinements, and an affectionate and in-
dulgent father. He saw but little of them, being
greatly absorbed in the business which took him to
the town every day immediately after breakfast, and
from which he returned to dinner too late to see
enough of his children to know much of their thoughts
or ways. He was of opinion that children, while
they were still young, should be chiefly the mother’s
care, and except for certain broad rules of conduct
which his integrity of nature made binding on them
as well as on himself, and which he would not allow
to be broken through, he left his wife to manage the
family in her own way.

If he noticed occasionally, with a certain unpleasant
surprise, that his little daughter was by no means her
mother’s favourite,—that she was sharply taken to”

task for childish faults that passed without comment ~

(489)







IN DISGRACE. 17

in Geoffrey—he smothered the thought by assuring
himself that it would all come right in time, sym-
pathy would arise between Sylvia and her mother
when the girl grew older and less odd; for since his
wife was always lamenting over the child’s peculiar-
ities he supposed there must be something in it.

But he noticed to more purpose, that on the other
hand his eldest son was running a fair chance of being
completely spoiled by constant petting; and therefore,
with masculine dread of scenes and entreaties and
tears, made arrangements for his attendance at the
Grammar School at Winston, and having informed his
wife of his decision, and patiently argued away her
reproaches for his cruelty in depriving her of her boy
without any warning, had carried his point, and from
that day had taken Geoffrey in to the town with him
every morning, left him at school, and let him walk
back every afternoon in time to delight his mother’s
eyes at her tea-table.

It was a small incident that opened Mr. Brooke’s
eyes to the hidden store of love for him in his little
daughter’s heart; but once opened they were never
closed to it again, and he repaid it with love of his
own all the greater that it had something of remorse
in it for his blindness. This was how it came about.

Every morning Sylvia and her mother were wont
to struggle through an hour or two of lessons, too

commonly painful to both teacher and learner.
(489) B



18 SYLVIA BROOKE.

For lessons it would be more correct to say arith-
metic, for Sylvia was a quick and ready learner of all
else, fond of reading, and intelligent in everything but
those terrible sums. For these she seemed to have an
utter incapacity in her early years, and the more
figures were drummed into her head the less she
seemed to comprehend what they meant.

Mrs. Brooke said Sylvia was incurably stupid.
Sylvia said nothing, but may have thought that to be
so often told so was not quite the way to make her
more clever. Mrs, Brooke declared Sylvia was sullen,
and, alas! it was too often true; but then Sylvia may
have felt, without power of expressing it, that her
mother’s irritable, confusing corrections of her mis-
takes was not conducive to good temper any more
than to a clear understanding of the subject in hand.

One day, when the irritation on both sides had

_caused the lesson-hour to be even more painful than
usual, Sylvia had been dismissed in disgrace, and
forbidden in consequence to go nutting with Geoffrey
on his return. from school in the afternoon. Mrs.
Brooke’s representations of the enormity of Sylvia’s
conduct, and the impossibility of teaching such a
wilful and stupid child when she herself was so far
from strong, and her nerves so easily upset—as he
knew—at last worked her husband up to consent to
go into the. nursery and “ speak seriously” to the
small culprit.- He went unwillingly enough; he hated



IN DISGRACE. 19

scoldings and uncomfortable things in general, and he
had very little idea of what he intended to say.

Sylvia was sitting disconsolately at. the open win-
dow, quite alone, for Geoffrey was out, and Nurse was
putting Baby to bed.

The mournful pose of the little figure did not do
much towards helping Mr. Brooke to severe words, but
either some trace of real or assumed sternness in his
face, or the unusual fact of his appearance in the
nursery at that hour, seemed to the child so ominous
that the great dark eyes she raised to his were dilated,
and the blood rose in her olive cheek.

Mr. Brooke’s kind heart smote him, but he went to
work bravely. He sat down, and drawing the child
towards him began with due severity :

“Sylvia, I hear from your mother that you re
been a very naughty girl to-day—”

He stopped suddenly, for the child had broken into
a storm of sobs and tears so violent that it frightened:
him. All the father—-and mother—in his heart rose
up then, and he took the forlorn little culprit on his |
knee, and with his arm tight round her and her face
pressed against his breast, held her until the paroxysm.
was over and she could listen to him.

“Why, Sylvia, my dear, what is it?” he said then,
with a quite novel and horrible feeling of remorse at
his heart, for the thought had pierced him like an
arrow that she had felt afraid of him.



20 SYLVIA BROOKE,

“You weren't frightened, my darling, were you!—
You weren’t afraid of your own father, Sylvia?”

The child put both her arms round his neck and
clasped him tight, her face still hidden in his breast.

“Oh, no! oh, no!” she whispered in a quivering
voice. ‘Oh, father, I do love you so!”

‘Mr. Brooke’s own voice was not quite steady nor
his eyes quite clear as he raised the little tear-stained
face to his and kissed it tenderly more than once, and
he vowed to himself that come what might his little
girl should never miss a father’s love and care while
he lived. Aloud he said only, “Don’t you think I love
my Sylvia, too?” and felt an odd sense of relief from
suspense when the child answered by a tighter clasp
of his neck, and a tremulous “ Yes, father dear.”

So ended the “serious talk” Mr. Brooke had under-
taken to have with his daughter; but although he
told his wife that he had spoken to Sylvia, and felt
certain the lessons would go on better for the future,
somehow he said nothing of the effect his words had
on her, or of her protestation of love for him—it
seemed to him a sacred confidence. Which goes to
prove that, in spite of his fair skin and blue eyes, Mr.
Brooke was more like his mother and his daughter
_ than appeared at first sight.

As for Geoffrey, who, it has been said, was an
honest and healthy-minded boy, as incapable of mean-
ness or deliberate unkindness as his father, whom he



IN DISGRACE, 21

resembled in character as much as he resembled his
mother in face and comeliness, he and Sylvia were
great friends and allies and had many a happy hour
together; for Sylvia had great powers of enjoyment
and could throw herself heart and soul into games
and pursuits when lessons and moody thoughts and
blind endeavours to gain her mother’s favour were
quite forgotten.

If Geoffrey was inclined to laugh at her fancies
and “nonsense,” he owned she was not a coward at
any rate; she could climb trees like a boy, and if she
was more or less afflicted with the general feminine
incapacity for throwing a stone properly, even at that
she was not so bad as some girls—Daisy Burton, for
instance, who, if she aimed at one object, invariably
hit another, unless the stone somehow got unac-
countably behind instead of in front of her.

Geoffrey both loved and admired his mother with
a love and admiration which, boy as he was, had
something in them of his father’s manly toleration
of her weaknesses. Probably he was quite aware of
her indulgence of him and her want of sympathy with
his sister, since such things are appreciated by children

-in a way that their habitual shyness of explaining
their thoughts to their elders makes difficult to believe;
but considering the dangers of such a state of things
it had but small effect on his relations with Sylvia,
who returned his affection with all the ardour of her



22 SYLVIA BROOKE.

vehement nature, and in spite of her mother’s decided
preference for him admired him in her childish way
as much as her mother did. She keenly felt a sense
of something wanting in her mother’s love for her,
but in her generous nature there was no jealousy.

As for the baby, he was the admitted pet of the
household—a lovely, soft, fair, dimpled darling, at
what motherly women call “‘just the interesting age,”
his rosy tongue twisting his ambitious attempts at
speech into that “little language” which is the sweetest
on earth; his plump legs failing under him at mo-
ments and letting him in for unexpected and sudden
sittings on the floor; and his blue eyes limpid with
that heaven’s own light which he had so lately
left.

Sylvia adored him, and was adored by him in return;
she could always bring back his merry laugh after his
feelings had been hurt by such indignities as having
his face washed when he did not like it, or the soft
golden rings of his curly hair combed out. Nurse,
who was young and lively, found Miss Sylvia a great
help—so steady and trustworthy, she said. More
often than her mistress knew or would have permitted
she would leave Baby to Sylvia’s care, and the little
girl was proud of the trust,

For a long time after the day when Sylvia and her
father had their explanation, the lessons went so well
that Mrs. Brooke congratulated herself on her wisdom



IN DISGRACE. 23

in having persuaded her husband to speak seriously
to the child.

Perhaps the certainty that her father dearly loved
her unconsciously helped Sylvia to do her best, for
happiness is a great brightener of the wits; and it was
a real happiness to the little girl to know for certain
—not only as part of a general rule that parents love
their children—that the father she loved so dearly
returned her affection in full. Perhaps Mrs. Brooke
herself felt better and stronger and less easily irritated
by her daughter’s failings. However it was, the les-
sons for some considerable time were not the weariness
and pain to both parties they had been of old.

But imperceptibly things changed again, and to a
great extent the old state of things returned once
more.

Tt began by Mrs. Brooke accusing her husband of
spoiling Sylvia, whereupon he retorted with some
angry words about her petting of Geoffrey and wish-
ing to turn the boy into a perfect milksop. Then
Mrs. Brooke cried, and he apologized for his violence,
while retaining his opinion; but the incident ruffled
Mrs. Brooke’s nerves, and that day the sums went a
good deal awry. Sylvia’s thoughts were away among
the sunny woods and the reapers in the golden corn-
fields, and on being sharply reprimanded for her
absent answers the old moody look began to creep
into her eyes once more.



24 SYLVIA BROOKE.

And so the lesson-hour went on day after day,
sometimes peacefully, sometimes much the reverse,
until one morning, after some very flagrant and appa-
rently wilful mistake of Sylvia’s, her mother dismissed
her, telling her that as a punishment for her negli-
gence and ill-temper she would be kept at home on
the following morning instead of going for a promised
drive to the station with her father and Geoffrey, who
were to leave her to come home in charge of Job, the
coachman, while they went on by railway to her
Grandmother Brooke’s, where they were to stay for
three days.

Mr. Brooke looked vexed when his wife told him
of Sylvia’s disgrace, and even tried to mollify her
anger so far as to permit Sylvia to enjoy the drive
on condition of the little girl’s promise to behave well
at her lessons during his three days’ absence; but
Mrs, Brooke was inexorable. She said Sylvia should
be made to understand that she must not defy her
mother’s authority, and if her father encouraged her
in her naughtiness there would be no bearing with her.

It was true Sylvia had been naughty, and he could
not hold her blameless; but he was sorry. So he
sighed and said no more. But when he saw the child
with the old moody, sullen look in her eyes, and felt
she needed comfort in spite of her evil doings, he put
his arm round her and drew her to him before he
said:



SYLVIA’S FRIENDS. 25

“Sylvia, I am sorry; but give me a kiss and pro-
mise me to be a good girl while I am away, and do
just what your mother tells you.”

And Sylvia once more flung her arms round his
neck, and promised with tears that she “would be
good—indeed she would be good always!”—a large
promise but a very sincere one.

And so it came to pass that on that bright autumn
morning she stood at the nursery window gazing
longingly at the dog-cart and Job.

CHAPTER II
SYLVIA’S FRIENDS.

Wee little Brookes had not many companions of

their own age, for among the few houses of the
better kind in the village, their own and that of the
rector, Mr. Burton, were the only two made bright by
children’s voices.

Tom and Daisy Burton, the two eldest of the rec-
tor’s large young family, were the chief companions
and playmates of Geoffrey and Sylvia Brooke, Tom
and Geoffrey especially being sworn friends and fel-
lows in fun and mischief of all kinds. Daisy was a
delicate, fretful child, and in spite of the love between



26 SYLVIA BROOKE,

her and Sylvia their pleasure in each other’s society ~
was too often marred by bickerings, of which Sylvia
always repented bitterly, with resolutions of better
behaviour for the future, like those of older people
not always remembered when the occasion for putting
them into practice arose. But the two little girls
were nevertheless really fond of each other, and some
of Sylvia’s happiest hours were spent in the rectory
garden, into which kind, overworked Mrs. Burton
was glad to turn her large young brood on fine days
to let them disport themselves, play, and quarrel and
make up again as they pleased.

Next door to the Brookes lived Mr. Evelyn, the
doctor—the Mr. Evelyn who, as Mrs. Brooke said,
“raved” about Sylvia’s eyes. Sylvia looked upon
him as quite an elderly man; indeed on being once
pressed to say how old she thought him she had shyly
hazarded fifty as probably near the mark. In reality
he was five-and-thirty, though his rather grave and
stern face made him look more than his years even to
older eyes than little Sylvia’s. Not that Sylvia had
ever found him stern; she could not remember the
time when she did not know and love him, and she
treated him with an affectionate and caressing con-
fidence which probably gave him an opportunity of
seeing in those dark eyes, under their long black
lashes, a brightness and beauty which her mother
failed to recognize.



SYLVIA’S FRIENDS. 27

The child could just remember the time when Mr.
Evelyn had not lived alone in the house next her home;
a time when his mother, a gentle, sweet-faced elderly
lady, lived with him, and petted and made much of
her dear “Will.” She could just remember—like
something seen in a pleasant dream—the flower-scented
parlour in which Mrs. Evelyn used to sit, with its
window opening on to the sunny garden, and how
sometimes as she sat at the piano and played softly
to please the child, who had an instinctive love for
music, her son would come in quietly and sink into
a chair, a dreamy far-away expression creeping into
his eyes—dark almost as Sylvia’s own—and a peaceful,
gentle look stealing over his serious face.

But Mrs. Evelyn had been dead some years now,
and her son lived alone in the pretty house under the
strict rule of his elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Barker, of
whom Geoffrey and Sylvia stood much in awe. The
pretty parlour no longer looked as pretty as it had
done in Mrs. Evelyn’s days, for neatness was Mrs.
Barker’s sole idea of prettiness. But not seldom Mr.
Evelyn rejoiced Sylvia’s heart by inviting her to come
in and pour out his otherwise solitary cup of tea for
him; and if the little maid enjoyed his company
above measure, and gained many a bit of knowledge
and always sympathetic kindness from him, I think
he too gained somewhat from her lively prattle and
her unfeigned love for him and belief in his powers.



28 SYLVIA BROOKE.

“Really, Mr. Evelyn,” Mrs. Brooke would say in
her gentle languid voice, “you spoil that child dread-
fully; you make so much of her that she will grow
quite unbearably conceited.”

The doctor laughed.

“On the contrary, Mrs. Brooke,” he answered, “it
is I who am likely to grow conceited and be spoilt.
Such a fervent believer as Sylvia is enough to make
any man set up for a prophet—even in his own
country!”

At the big red house at the an of the village
nearest to Winston lived Mrs. Fane, an old lady
whose splendid raiment and severe manner—this last
designed to impress upon any small delinquent that
“children should be seen and not heard”—had a
sobering and somewhat alarming effect upon Sylvia’s
fanciful mind on the rare occasions of their meeting,

“Why are you afraid of Mrs. Fane, Sylvia?” asked
the doctor one day when that lady had happened to
come upon him and the child together peering into
Hannah Webb’s window, in the lively discussion of
how Sylvia could best lay out a new sixpence he had
presented her with.

The little girl blushed. “TI don’t like her,” she said
hesitating; “she makes me feel—so little—and silly.
But oh, I do love Miss Milner!”

Miss Milner, the pretty young lady whose first kiss
Sylvia had never forgotten, was Mrs. Fane’s niece;



SYLVIAS FRIENDS. 29

and it was at that lady’s house that she was paying
her yearly six weeks’ visit on the occasion the child
remembered so well. Since then she had seen Miss
Milner many times, and had formed for her one of
those romantic attachments that children are so prone
to form for their elders, especially if those elders are
pretty and sympathetic. Miss Milner was both, and
her gentle heart had opened wide to take in the little
girl, who seemed somehow to have been defrauded of
her full share of mother’s love. She did not invite
her to tea, as Mr. Evelyn did—probably her aunt
would not have approved of such spoiling. ‘Children
should be kept in their proper place—the nursery,”
she was wont to declare; and one is inclined to agree
to some extent with this opinion in these days, when
the only place considered not the “proper place” for
the children is just that nursery.

But Miss Milner often came to ask permission for
Sylvia to accompany her on long rambles over the
country, or on shopping expeditions into Winston.
It must not be thought that Mrs. Brooke was ever wil-
fully unkind to her little daughter, that she grudged
her pleasure or treated her in a consciously unjust
manner. If Mr. Evelyn or Betty Milner liked to have
the trouble of the child, she had not the slightest
objection, she said; only she could not understand
what they found so amusing and interesting about
her. With her she was silent and reserved, unless



30 SYLVIA BROOKE,

she was in one of her impulsive moods, which were
still more difficult to manage.

“Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Fane in the deep decided
voice that had such an effect on Sylvia (she always’
called her niece Elizabeth in full), you bring that
Brooke child much too forward; you and William
Evelyn are ruining her between you. Imagine my
seeing him this morning putting his nose against
Hannah Webb’s window, for all the world like the
village boys, and gravely discussing with that chit the
merits of penny toys! I have known William Evelyn
since he was a baby; and I felt it my duty to tell him
a medical man ought to have something better to do
at eleven o'clock in the morning than dawdling at a
toy-shop window with a child who ought to be in the
proper place—the nursery.”

“What did Will—what did Mr. Evelyn say, Aunt
Deborah?” said Miss Milner, who did not seem so
much shocked at the doctor’s delinquencies as Mrs.
Fane. ,

“In my young days, Elizabeth,” her aunt went on
still more severely, “young ladies did not speak of
gentlemen by their Christian names. But there are
no young /adies now perhaps, as there are no children.”

Miss Milner’s colour rose a little, but she did not
speak, and Mrs. Fane continued:

“William Evelyn, like most of you young people
nowadays, has no respect for his elders. He turned



SYLVIA’S FRIENDS. 31

off my well-meant advice with some foolish joke about
that ugly, brown-faced child having asked his opinion
as a great medical authority on the wholesomeness of
bulls’-eyes! Extremely impertinent, I consider, to a
woman old enough to be his mother!”

Miss Milner smiled. “I am sure he meant you no
disrespect, Aunt Deborah,” she pleaded, “Mr. Evelyn
couldn’t be impertinent to anyone.”

Mr. Evelyn must have returned the good opinion
Miss Milner had of him, to judge by the way he
received Sylvia’s expression of love for that young
lady on the morning in question.

“But oh, I do love Miss Milner!” the little girl had
cried.

“That's right, Sylvia,” he had answered;— “so
do I!”

At home among the servants Sylvia’s best friends
were Job the groom and Cook, both of whom had
known her ever since she was born. Job was a de-
voted adherent of both her and Geoffrey. They wor-
ried his life out at times, extorting terrible threats of
complaints to “the master,” and other dire penalties,
such as turning them out of the stable-yard once for
all—threats quite understood by the offenders to be
only a form of words of no importance whatever.

Sylvia was Cook’s especial favourite; she found
Master Geoffrey too much of the nature of a whirl-
wind in her scrupulously-kept kitchen, But many a



32 . SYLVIA BROOKE.

happy holiday morning did Sylvia spend with the
kind old woman, who had grown gray and portly in
the service of two generations of Brookes. Perhaps
the child’s likness to her Grandmother Brooke, whom
Cook had served and loved in past days, was one
reason of her affection for the little girl. So Sylvia
learned from her to make bread and pastry; and
sundry rather dirty and uneatable little rolls used
from time to time to make their appearance on Mr.
Brooke’s plate at. dinner, with Sylvia’s triumphant
assurances that Cook had let her make them “on
purpose for a surprise to him.”

I don’t know if Mr. Brooke had the gallantry ac-
tually to eat these samples of his daughter's skill, but
at least he always received them with proper gratitude
and thanks, and thereby warmed their maker’s loving
little heart.

In return for Cook’s lessons in fist own art, Sylvia
was wont to impart to her the stores of learning she
extracted from her lessons and the books she read.
She even at one time entertained the soaring ambition
of teaching Cook French—as much of that language,
that is, as she was mistress of herself, But Cook
proved so impervious to the charms of “0d est ma
chatie? Je ne sais pas,” that the attempt had to be
abandoned,

“Tf so be you wanted to call the cat—not that she:
’ad any great love for ’em herself—why not say ‘cat’



SYLVIA’S FRIENDS. 33

and a’ done with it?” she asked. And Sylvia’s views
of the advantage of calling that animal “chatte” instead
were not at that time defined enough to enable her to
answer the question satisfactorily to herself, much less
to Cook.

“Tf a person’as the privilege of being a born Briton
—as never will be slaves—” said Cook, “it seems like
flyin’ in the face of Providence to be learnin’ of furrin
languages when you ’ave a good one of your own.”

Sylvia had a very vague notion, as indeed most
people have, of the real meaning of that mysterious
action, “flying in the face of Providence;” but she
gave up teaching Cook French after that.

History and geography did not fare much better at
Cook’s uncompromising hands. She was inclined to
look upon the whole succession of the kings and
queens of England as purely imaginary characters,
and even as such showed not the slightest respect for
them, Jumping them all together as a “queer lot,”
with the exception perhaps of “Good Queen Bess”—
her favourable opinion in this case being perhaps won
by that monarch having died unmarried; for Cook
was used to say that she had never seen the man she
would change her name for. Jane Brown she had
been born and Jane Brown she would die, please
goodness; and the great queen seemed to have been
of the same way of thinking, from what she heard.

As to geography, which, like most little girls,

(489 ) Cc



34 SYLVIA BROOKE,

Sylvia thought extremely interesting, Cook’s ideas
of the divisions of the globe were of the very faintest.
The one fact she held most firmly to was the great
danger of inadvertently “crossing the line,” which she
evidently regarded as a visible and substantial obstruc-
tion when you happened to go to sea. She had been
a great traveller when she was a young gal, she said,
and was in service in a very “igh family,” with whom
she had once journeyed by sea all the way from Lon-
don to Plymouth. All through this long and perilous
voyage she had apparently been haunted by the pro-
bability not only of coming upon “the line,” but also
of making shipwreck on the “Silver Sands” — by
which she probably meant the Goodwin Sands.

Sylvia listened with respect and awe to these tales
of thrilling adventure. She felt somehow that there
must be some slight confusion about “the line,” which
she knew to be the equator dividing the globe in half,
and situated, she thought, farther from the shores of
England than Cook’s story seemed to show; but this
did not detract from the interest of the story itself in
her eyes.

Cook used to say that she had been “a rare scholard”
when she was young; but either that was so long ago
that she had had time to forget a good deal, or else
the standard of learning must have been rather low
when she was a child. In real truth, I think in her
heart she was inclined, like a good many other people,



SYLVIA’S FRIENDS, 35

to despise “ book-learning” a little. It was all very
well for “the gentry” and folks that could sit with
their hands before them, “ but it was just them books
that set the boys and girls up in their own conceit now-
adays, with their fine ’ats and feathers and fallals.”

But Cook still kept religiously to one piece. of read-
ing. Every Sunday night, when the kitchen hearth
was swept, and the fire bright, and the kettle singing
its pleasant song, she would bring out her big Bible,
and holding it ont at arms’-length, the candle between
her and the book, she would spell out a chapter to
herself, by the aid of her glasses, with a grave and
reverent countenance.

I am inclined to think that her “rare” scholarship
had dwindled down to that one achievement; but I
am sure she derived a sense of dutiful pleasure from
it, and 1 know that, in spite of her poor store of
knowledge, she was one of those who deserve to the
fullest extent the highest commendation promised to
even the best of us—“Well done, thou good and
faithful servant!”



36 SYLVIA BROOKE.

CHAPTER IIL.

THE BROKEN PROMISE.

See stood at the nursery window on that bright

autumn morning when my story began until her
father’s cheery voice, crying, “Sylvia, Sylvia! aren’t
you coming down to say good-bye to me and Geoff!”
rang out from below. Then she quickly withdrew
her gaze from Job and the dog-cart, and ran lightly
downstairs to kiss father and brother with that im-
pulsive affection no trouble or naughtiness ever caused
to fail,

“Be a good girl while I am away, Sylvia dear,”
said this tender-hearted father, “and you shall drive
with me to Heresford on Saturday afternoon.”

_ Now Heresford was an earthly paradise to Sylvia.
For in that pretty village, some eight miles off,
. stood. an old farmhouse her father went to visit at
intervals; and in its beautiful old-fashioned kitchen-
garden bordered with sweet-scented flowers, and
among the joys of its great. yard where were fowls
and pigs and dogs and horses, or in the milking-shed
where the patient cows stood awaiting each her turn
at Sally the milkmaid’s hand, Sylvia could roam at
her will, while her father talked with the old farmer
and his wife.



THE BROKEN PROMISE. 37

Then Mrs. Haynes would call her in to a meal of
sweet creamy milk and fruit and home-made cake;
and then would come the greatest joy of all—the
drive home alone with her father, through the waning
evening light, along the scented lanes, under the clear
starry sky or in the first beams of the silver moon,
while perhaps the glowworms shone in the wayside
ditch like stars that had fallen to earth and lost their
way, and white or dusky moths flitted across their
path, Sylvia’s active tongue generally ceased its
prattle at such times, and her eyes grew large and
dreamy as she sat by her father’s side, often with her
little head resting against his shoulder, and her small
soul filled with an unspeakable delight that kept her
silent,

These evening drives with her father were the
greatest joy, the most longed-for treat of Sylvia’s
childhood. —

So Mr. Brooke’s parting words soothed the ache of
regret she felt at her loss of the promised drive to the
station and back, and she came into the house after
watching the progress of the dog-cart till the turn of
the road hid it from her sight with a bright face, and
getting out her lesson-books, fell to her tasks with
so great a determination to keep her promise to her
father and be “a good girl” that the dreaded sums
went better than usual, and Mrs. Brooke had no occa-
sion to say more than half a dozen times, “Sylvia,



38 SYLVIA BROOKE,

how can you be so stupid!” or “Really, Sylvia, there
is no getting anything into your head. Do try to
show some little sense!”

But this was a mere nothing, and when lessons
were over Sylvia could run upstairs to fetch her
garden hat and have a romp with Baby, with a clear
conscience and a delightful conviction that, if only
she could manage to be no more stupid and tiresome
at to-morrow and the next day’s arithmetic lesson than
she had been to-day, Saturday’s drive to beautiful
Heresford was certain.

Hope is a great incentive to exertion, and next day
things went equally well—so well, indeed, that almost
for the first time since arithmetic had become the
bugbear of poor Sylvia’s lesson-hours her mother said
kindly: “Why can’t you always be as good as you
have been to-day, Sylvia?”

It was not a very high compliment, but it brought
the colour into the little girl’s cheeks with pleasure,
and the stirring in her heart of the love for her mother
which lay hid there always ready to spring forth at a
word,

“OQ, Mamma!” she began hesitatingly (Mrs. Brooke
insisted on being called “Mamma;” she thought it
‘more refined than the now commoner “Mother”)—
“O, Mamma! I do try—indeed, I do try!” Her eyes
began to fill and her voice choked.

“Tf you tried, Sylvia,” answered her mother, “you



THE BROKEN PROMISE. 39

would succeed; it is just because you don’t try that I
complain. But I hope now you intend to do better
for the future. You may run across and ask if Daisy
may come to dinner and go out with you and Nurse
and Baby this afternoon.”

You see Mrs. Brooke was really anxious to do what
was right and kind by her little daughter, and wished
to reward her good behaviour; only she did not under-
stand that if she could have taken Sylvia in her arms
and answered her pleading little speech with a loving
“Yes, dear; I know you do!” the child’s heart would
have repaid the concession a hundredfold with grateful
love and loyalty. Sylvia could not have explained
this, though she felt the chill all ardently loving
natures feel when repulsed. But she went gladly to
beg for Daisy’s company, and the two little girls spent
a very happy afternoon together, laughing and chat-
tering in their own way as older girls do in theirs, and
Sylvia forgot the troubled sense of disappointment;
and when Mr. Evelyn, hearing the merry voices in
the garden next his own, came in and begged to be
allowed to carry off Miss Burton and Miss Brooke to
cheer him at his tea, who so proud as she as she
poured it out with discreet care and dignity from the
old-fashioned silver tea-pot and cream-jug?

Mrs, Barker was gracious enough to send in for the
young ladies not only a plate of hot buttered toast,
but a glass dish of strawberry jam of her own making;



40 ' SYLVIA BROOKE,

and when the two little girls had done full justice to
these dainties Mr. Evelyn brought out all the books
that Sylvia most delighted in, and with an eager little
maid on each side of him, with flushed cheeks and
bright eyes upon his face, told stories, and explained
pictures, and answered difficult questions in a manner
that the people who thought him stern would not
have recognized as his.

Jt was, indeed, a delightful afternoon, but it had
to come to an end all too soon—like most delightful
things. Its pleasures, and the expectation of her
father’s and Geoffrey’s return the next day, and—
joy of joys!—the hoped-for drive to Heresford on
Saturday, excited Sylvia’s lively brain, and as Nurse
helped her to undress she chattered like a young
sparrow of Mr. Evelyn and his books, and Mrs.
Barker’s beautiful tea and her own part in dispen-
sing it,

But, alas! the next day, the day which was to be
made so happy by the return of her father and brother,
the day before the one settled for the drive to Heres-
ford, Sylvia came to grief again over her sums. Per-
haps it was just the anticipation of the pleasant pros-
pect before her that excited the child and made her
restless; perhaps Mrs. Brooke, a little flurried by the
departure from the usual placid course of her daily
life, involved in her having arranged to drive to Win-
-ston in the afternoon to make calls there and after-



THE BROKEN PROMISE. 4]

wards fetch her husband and son from the station,
was even more ready than usual to feel irritated by
any inattention, real or fancied, on Sylvia’s part;
perhaps both causes combined to produce the result;
but anyhow the result was that Sylvia grew first
hopelessly muddled over what her mother reasonably
enough called “a sum in simple addition a baby might
have done,” and then, under Mrs. Brooke’s irritable
rebukes, sullenly silent. At last she was dismissed
to her own little bed-room till dinner-time, with
more of real anger than was often shown by her
mother, whose management was usually conducted
on the plan of fretful complaining against her
stupidity and temper.

When Sylvia reached her own little harbour of
refuge, she flung herself face downwards on her little
white bed and cried with the despairing passion of
grief of childhood. She had intended to be so good—
so very good—all the time Father was away; and now
it was all of no use. There was no pleasure in the
thought of his home-coming with Geoff—he would
hear how naughty she had been, and the drive to
Heresford would be forbidden! And she had promised
him she would be good—and now she had broken her
promise, and he could never trust her again! Amid
all the misery the poor child suffered as she lay weep-
ing’on her bed, that thought ached the worst. “Bea
good girl while I am away, Sylvia dear,” he had said



42 . SYLVIA BROOKE.

to her just before he went, and that was only three
days ago! And now Mamma had spoken to her in a
voice and in words so angry and severe that they had
frightened her. It was no good trying to be good! if
she didn’t try it came to just the same thing. She
did so want Father to have heard how good his Sylvia
had been, because she had promised him she would be
—and now! ‘Dear Father!” sobbed the poor child to
herself, with passionate remorseful love.

“Miss Sylvia,” said Nurse’s voice beside her,
“come and wash your hands for dinner. Why, my good
gracious me!” she went on as she caught sight of the
child’s tear-stained face, “whatever are you a crying
about now? You've made yourself a perfect fright!”

Sylvia made no answer; she was tired out with
grief and tears, She meekly washed her face and
hands and put on her clean pinafore under Nurse’s
direction, and went into the nursery to wait till the
dinner-bell rang.

Nurse was young and careless, though very fond of
the baby, her charge, and kind after her way to Sylvia,.
who, as I have said, eased her of many a small duty
by her constant willingness to do anything in her
power for that young hero, her beloved little brother.

“There, now, Miss,” she said; “what a pity it is
you can’t always be as you were last night—so lively
and cheerful! It’s very bad for the eyes to cry so
much, I’ve heard say.” ,



THE BROKEN PROMISE. 43

Sylvia’s lip quivered; but Nurse, going on with—
“There, you just hold Baby a minute while I go
down to see if his broth’s ready,” put her into the low
rocking-chair and Baby on to her lap; and Sylvia, left
alone with the darling, laid her sad face to his bloom-
ing cheek, and kissing and caressing him, and listening
to his baby prattle, some of the soreness went out of
her poor little heart.

Nurse came up presently, having been rather longer
away than was absolutely necessary, and then the bell
rang, and Sylvia sighed and went down to dinner.

Mrs. Brooke had had time to feel that perhaps all
the blame of the morning’s misfortunes could not with
‘entire justice be laid at Sylvia’s door; moreover, the
look of the pale, tear-washed little face with its mourn-
ful dark eyes, roused the motherly feeling that did not
often display itself towards her. As the child took
her accustomed place at the table with a certain diffi-
dent and nervous look which would have gone to Mr.
Brooke’s heart had he seen it, Mrs. Brooke’s voice
was kinder than usual as she said: “Say grace, Sylvia;”
and the childish heart, sensitive to every shade of
change, felt more at ease. She raised her dark eyes
timidly to her mother’s face, but said nothing.

“T see you are sorry for your behaviour this mor-
ning, Sylvia,” said Mrs. Brooke, “we will say no more
about it; try to behave better to-morrow.”

The dark eyes filled again. ‘“ I—am—sorry—most



44 SYLVIA BROOKE.

—hbecause I promised—’ the child began and could
get no farther.

“Well, well,” said her mother hastily, unwilling to
have more tears, “it is all over now; don’t cry any
more about it. Only try to be a good girl.”

So Sylvia gulped down her tears, and ate her dinner
in silence, but a shade less miserable than she had
been.

Dinner had not long been over, Baby had come
downstairs for his daily after-dinner hour, and Sylvia’s
face was beginning to regain more of its brightness,
when in came Miss Milner in her pretty white dress
and broad hat, with a bunch of pink roses at her belt,
and looking so pretty, and like a sweet pink rose her-
self, that the child’s eyes followed all her movements
with even greater admiration than usual.

Miss Milner greeted Mrs. Brooke with her usual
bright, sincere manner, kissed Baby, who made a grab
at her roses but luckily missed them, and then drew
her small admirer towards her with the affection she
always showed her, and giving her a hearty kiss, began:

“Mrs. Brooke, you told me you were going out
calling this afternoon on your way to meet Mr. Brooke
and Geoff, and I know there will not be room for
Sylvia in the dog-cart; so may I borrow her for the
afternoon? Aunt Deborah has an old friend—a lady
she has not met for years—spending the day with her,
and they are so happy talking over old times and



THE BROKEN PROMISE. 45

memories that I am only in the way. I want to spend
a happy afternoon in Farley Wood, and I should enjoy
it so. much more if Sylvia were with me.”

Sylvia’s heart leapt and then fell. An afternoon in
‘the woods with her dear Miss Milner would be un-
speakable delight ; but then—she had been so naughty
at her sums, her mother had been so exceedingly dis-
pleased with her—she would never consent to her go-
ing after that. She looked at her with imploring eyes
while these thoughts rushed through her mind, and
again Mrs. Brooke felt a slight pang of something like
remorse.

“Well I don’t know,” she began, and hesitated—
“Sylvia has been a very naughty girl to-day (Sylvia’s
heart sank down and down); but—well, she promises
me to do better to-morrow, and on that condition I
will allow her to go with you, Betty.”

“Oh, thank you, Mamma! thank you!” cried the
little girl with light breaking all over her face; “may
I go upstairs and put on my things now?”

Permission given, Sylvia ran upstairs to get ready,
while Mrs. Brooke and Betty Milner chatted with
each other, and made smaller talk still for the baby.

“How pretty you look to-day, Betty!” said Mrs.
Brooke. “Oh dear! I wish Sylvia had your colouring.”

“My colouring!” laughed the girl “Why, Mrs.
Brooke, I have nothing to boast of compared to your
own (this was not in fact so, for Miss Milner’s dark

sie





46 SYLVIA BROOKE.

eyebrows and lashes and golden-brown hair gave her
a great advantage over Mrs. Brooke’s uniform fairness)
—iine is nothing to boast of compared to your own;
and as to Sylvia, she will be a brilliant beauty in a
few years’ time—you'll be so proud of her you won't
know what to do—when I shall be a poor fading drab
uninteresting creature that people will say could never
have been thought even pretty!”

“How you exaggerate, dear!” said Mrs. Brooke;
“but it is so pleasant to see young folks so light-
hearted—it goes off soon enough, goodness knows.”

She sighed gently like one oppressed with cares.

Mrs. Brooke possessed an excellent husband, fine
and healthy children, a good income, a comfortable
house, and indeed as many comforts as woman could
desire; but, like many another matron, she laboured
under the impression that no unmarried person knew
anything of the real troubles or difficulties of life, and
she was wont to discourse movingly to girls on this
subject.

Miss Milner, whose own distant home was a not
very happy or congenial one, with an irascible father
and a jealous stepmother but little older than herself,
and whose holiday visits to her aunt, Mrs. Fane, were
not altogether delightful, felt some half- resentful
amusement at her implied freedom from all care; but
she only laughed in answer, and asked at what time
Sylvia must be back.



IN FARLEY Woop. 47

“Well,” said Mrs. Brooke, “the time we shall get
home is not quite certain, for I am not quite sure that
John may not have something to do in the town on
his way from the station. But anyhow she had better
be in by six; her father would be put out if she were
not here to welcome him—you know he makes such a
ridiculous fuss about her—and we can’t be back before
that, I should think.”

CHAPTER IV,
IN FARLEY WOOD.

S Miss Milner and Sylvia walked through the
village street, which lay sleeping in the after-
noon sunshine of a beautiful autumn day, the child
was very silent. Glad as she was to have been per-
mitted the pleasure, delighted as she felt at the
prospect of a whole afternoon in the lanes and woods
with her dear Miss Milner, the pleasure was damped
by one little regret. Her mother, in giving her per-
mission, had spoken of her naughtiness in the mor-
ning, and Sylvia's sensitive heart was troubled at the
thought of Miss Milner’s knowing it. She did so
like Miss Milner to be fond of her—she did so hope
that the knowledge of her bad behaviour would make
no difference in her love.



48 SYLVIA BROOKE,

The first sight of the little girl’s face had been quite
enough to tell her friend that something had gone
wrong, and she had often enough heard Mrs. Brooke’s
complaints of Sylvia’s stupidity and obstinacy to be
aware that the child was not seldom in disgrace; but
she felt it wiser and kinder to ignore the tale the
dark eyes with their traces of recent tears told until
she discovered if Sylvia would be helped most by
speech or by silence.

So they walked through the village, and then
turned into the deep-cut lane which led to Farley
Wood—a lane where the trees formed an arch which
let the sun through in lines and spots broken by
quivering shadows.

It was a lovely day in the beginning of October,
warm almost as summer, and yet with that slight
briskness in the air which sets the blood leaping.
Here and there in the hedge a late wild strawberry
showed its crimson knob, and a few blackberries were
still hanging to the brambles, a glory now of purple,
brown, and crimson leaves. The briony berries were
burning red, and the dog-wood and wild guelder-rose
showed their clusters of vivid scarlet. In the woods
the trees were putting on their livery of orange and
crimson and russet, and here and there a scarlet
maple stood up like a pillar of fire.

Very few words passed between the girls; Sylvia
put her hand through Betty’s arm and pressed



IN FARLEY WOOD. 49

herself against her as they loitered on their way, but
it was not until they reached a gate along the lane—a
gate which was a favourite resting-place of theirs—
that they began to talk in earnest.

From this gate, lying in the wide valley beyond,
they could see the town of Winston, floating, it
almost seemed, in the magic haze of distance in the
October sunshine. The tall spire of the abbey
church stood up above the mist, and there came to
them from it the faint sweet sound of the bells for
which it was famous.

“Listen, Sylvia!” said Miss Milner softly; and they
stood leaning on the gate, the girl’s heart and the
child’s each answering after its kind to the far-off
music.

Miss Milner’s heart must have been full of some
sweetness of its own, for the blue eyes grew soft and
dreamy, and a little smile crept round her lips, and
the pink roses in her cheeks deepened.

Suddenly she heard a sort of gasp by her side, and
looking at Sylvia, saw she was crying. Her kind
arms were round the child in a moment.

“What is it, darling? What has gone wrong?” she
whispered tenderly; and Sylvia sobbed out:

“T didn’t want you to know I was naughty! You
won't care about me now, and—”

“Not care about you, Sylvia! Why, you know I

love you dearly, and always shall! There, dear, don’t
(489) D



- 50 SYLVIA BROOKE,

cry about it. Come inside the gate and sit down and
tell me all about it.”

She led the poor child into the pleasant meadow
beyond the gate, and there Sylvia told her tale. of
childish grief and remorse, lying with her face hidden
in her friend’s lap,

She told how she did try very often, but she could
not understand about sums, and then Mamma said she
was obstinate, and then she (Sylvia) grew angry and
naughty, and would not try any more. And with
still deeper grief and remorse she went on to tell how
she had promised Father she would be good all the
time he was away, and he had said if she kept her
promise he would drive her to Heresford on Saturday;
and now she had been naughtier than ever to-day,
and she certainly would not be allowed to go; and
besides—worst of all—Father would think she had
not really tried to keep her promise at all.

“T don’t think so, Sylvia,” said Miss Milner, gently
smoothing the dark head in her lap; for Miss Milner
was quick-sighted enough to have long ago discovered
that Sylvia’s love for her father was fully returned.
“T don’t think so, indeed, dear. Your father will be
sorry that you have not kept your word, but I am
quite sure he will know you tried to keep it.”

“Do you think so—really, truly?” asked the child,
raising her head and fixing her dark eyes entreatingly
on her friend.



IN FARLEY WOOD. 51

“Really and truly, Sylvia, I am quite sure he will,
and love his little girl all the more for having even
tried to do right. Why, Sylvia, we all do wrong at
times; I know I do often enough. But I hope you
don’t intend to leave off loving me, do you?”

“*No, no!” cried the child, seizing her hand and
squeezing it against her tear-stained little cheek. “TI
do love you so!—and so does Mr. Evelyn—he said go.”

The pink roses in Miss Milner’s cheek turned to
damask, and there came the sweetest smile round her
pretty mouth.

“Did he?” she said. ‘Well, then I have at least
two—” and left her speech unfinished.

“Sylvia,” she began again, and seemed to be going
to say something more. ‘“ No—nothing,” she added,
and gave Sylvia a very tender kiss,

“Now, dear,” she said, “don’t make yourself un-
happy any more; let us get on to Farley Wood and
rest there. I have brought a story-book with me, and
when we are tired of wandering about and talking, I
will read you the prettiest story I can find in it.”

Sylvia’s face brightened under her friend’s bright
words. She dearly loved a story, and many a happy
half-hour had she spent out-of-doors, lying with her
head in Miss Milner’s lap, her ears drinking in every
word that fell from her lips, and her dark eyes fixed
on the reader’s face with constant admiration.

By and by from the deep lane they turned into the



52 SYLVIA BROOKE,

woodland path that led into Farley Wood, and follow-
ing it among the trees came to the spot which was
their favourite resort. Here, in an open grass-grown
space, was a spring, famous among the country-folk
for the great purity of its water. -Long ago it had
been fenced about with a low brick wall, a mass now
of ivy, wild geranium, and moss; a bucket hung
within by an iron chain, and a tin cup was attached to
a nail in the wall, that so the thirsty wayfarer might,
after raising the bucketful of pure ice-cold water, have
the means of drinking a portion of it with ease and
comfort.

Miss Milner and Sylvia seated themselves upon the
sweet dry grass by the wall, and leaning against the
ivy-covered brickwork, rested from their walk and
basked in the mellow afternoon sunshine, filled with
that sense of sweet indolence and content of which a
wood in autumn knows the secret so well. A pied’
wagtail alighted almost at their feet, and, unabashed
by their silent presence, made his little quick runs
with accompanying flirtings of his long tail: Then a
robin perched on a bough close by and sang them his
song of cheerful sentiment, while a little dusty bright-
eyed lizard slipped out of the grass so close to Sylvia
that it had run over her hand before it knew where
it was.

Tt was all so sweet and peaceful and beautiful that
the soreness in the child’s heart insensibly died away



IN FARLEY WOOD, 53

under the touch of the great Mother Nature’s hand.
Miss Milner’s assurance of her father’s trust in her had
consoled her immensely, and the woods did the rest;
so that presently, at the sight of a pitched battle
between two sparrows over a fallen seed, her clear
childish laugh rang out among the trees, and Miss
Milner, awakened from a daydream—a pleasant one,
to judge by her happy look—and catching sight of
the recovered brightness of the little girl’s face,
laughed too from pure gaiety of heart.

“Tow lovely it all is, isn’t it?” she said. “And yet
how few people one ever meets in the woods! Sylvia,
would you like the story now, or do you like best just
to sit still and do nothing?”

“The story, please,” said Sylvia, who was not yet
old enough to feel the whole charm of silent absorp aon
in Nature’s doings.

Miss Milner drew a little book from her pocket,
and began to turn over its leaves.

“T wonder which one you would like best?” she
said,

“J daresay I should like them all best,” said
Sylvia.

Miss Milner laughed.

“Here is one about woods,” she said; “that seems
appropriate to-day, doesn’t it?” and Sylvia, settling
herself comfortably against the wall, her eyes fixed on
Miss Milner’s face, the girl began:



54 SYLVIA BROOKE.

THE SECRET OF THE Woops.

In a country so far away that few ever find it, and
yet so near to some of us that it needs but a step
forward to reach it, in the very midst of a great forest
of fir-trees, there once stood a little hut, so hidden
amongst the trunks and so like them in colour and
appearance that it would have needed a keen eye to
discover it.

Cushions of soft green moss and yellow stone-crop
decked its roof, and to its old walls clung tufts of
wild geranium, brightening them with its green leaves
and pink blossoms, and shedding its wholesome fra-
grance into the warm air until the waning year,
when the vivid crimson of its autumn foliage glowed
and burned like a flame.

Around the hut the tall fir-trees stood straight and
strong, as if to guard it, their dark heads making a
canopy for shade in the noonday heat or for shelter
in rough weather; their trunks glowing red in the
evening light, while their fallen needles made a soft
and Peratne carpet around it from year’s end to
year’s end.

Here and there amongst the firs other trees showed
their bright verdure; the graceful birch with its silver
- stem and drooping fountains of foliage stood in a
green space apart, or the oak-tree put forth bud and



IN FARLEY WOOD. 55

leaf, and saw its acorns form and ripen and fall,
undisturbed but by the leaping squirrel.

In this quiet place Nature held sway unmolested,
and there were none to look upon her ways but one
who dwelt in the little hut, and he was but a child..

How long he had lived there, or how he came there
he knew not; but it had been his shelter ever since he
could remember, and he knew and wished for no
other. The forest, so vast that in all his wanderings
he had never neared its limits, was his home, the
home of his heart; its fruits gave him food when he
was hungry, its silver springs water to quench his
thirst, and the wild creatures of the wood were his
playmates and companions.
. The squirrel would leap upon his shoulder and brush

his cheek with its bushy tail, the birds came to his
hand for food or gently pecked at him to attract his
notice, and the shy field-mice played their pretty antics
around him as fearless of him as of the tall tree beneath
which he sat, a charmed spectator of all that beautiful
wild woodland life; while overhead—loud or low, soft
or strong, now a gentle sighing and anon a wild moan-
ing—sang for ever the voice of the wind through the
fir-trees, the eternal song of the woods.

And as day by day went on, and month by month,
and year by year, that song that is the voice of silence
was but more and more beloved of him, and he was
content to listen entranced and happy, until—slowly,



56 SYLVIA BROOKE,

slowly—a thought woke in his heart—far away at first,
and only a dream-thought—that the lonely and beloved
woods held, hidden from mankind, but yet perchance
to be discovered by some one happy man, a secret—
the supreme secret it might be, the key to unlock the
mysteries of life and death, and make of the universe
one vast harmony.

And the dream-thought grew and grew until it
alone was real, and all else a dream; and day by day
and night by night he haunted the woods, longing
with passionate desire to wring from them their mean-
ing and the clue to their language, which must surely
come at last to ears opened by such worship as his.
As he stood motionless among the tall trees, in their
shadow, while their high heads bent and swayed one
towards another in the sunshine, his heart was full of
a wild delight in their beauty and the music of the
wind sighing through their branches. The wonderful
carpet of verdure and fallen pine needles at his feet;
the green alleys filled with the glow of the golden
sunshine and pierced by its shafts; the songs of the
birds; the soft, swift rustle of the mouse among the
undergrowth ; the quick leap of the squirrel from bough
to bough overhead; the varied glory of the butterfly’s
wing, and the shining mail and glancing gauze of the
dragon-fly ;. above all, the moon riding high in the
heavens and irradiating the silent woods with her
beams, all mingled in his longing, and gave strength



IN FARLEY WOOD, 57

to it; but it was the voice of the woods, the song of
the wind amongst them that he knew held the heart
of the secret—its supreme revelation. Nevertheless
he listened and longed in vain, though there were times
when he felt himself so near it that it seemed the next
moment—nay, the moment itseli—must make it: his—
when it seemed that the song must take words for his
straining ears. Then once more it eluded him, and
was but the voice of the wind among the trees.

So the days went on and he was a man, and his
heart grew hot and impatient within him, and he said
to himself that his old love, the woods of his birth,
had deceived him; either they did not hold the great
secret at all, or they refused to part with it. Well, he
would go elsewhere and seek it. The woods were wide,
so wide that he had till now thought of them as limit-
less, and it would be a far journey to their edge, but
some day—he did not know when—he would follow
some woodland path to its end and find what lay
beyond, But he felt a traitor while he thought these
thoughts. Many atime the charm of the woods came
over him again, and he wondered at himself for a while
that he should have a wish to leave the beloved haunts
of all his life; but the spell was broken and again he
would fly from the beauty he had loved, and throwing
himself on his couch in the dim hut, lie tossing and
miserable with heartaching for he knew not what,

When these moods were on him, the woodland



58 SYLVIA BROOKE.

creatures, his old playmates, shrank away from him,
doubting and alarmed, as if they understood something
of his mind, and felt the tie between him and them
was loosening.

Then, at last, one night after a day of helpless long-
ing and misery—one cloudy night when the moon was
away, and when he supposed that the denizens of the
wood, all but the wakeful owl and bat, were sleeping,
and naught but the tall trees would witness his flight
—he softly opened the door of the hut and stepped out
into the darkness. As the door fell to noiselessly a
sudden chill and fear fell upon him as of something
lost or gone for ever, and he turned as if to re-enter.
If a bird had chirped or a mouse squeaked at that
moment, he would have laid his hand once more upon
the latch; but all was silent, and he turned again and
set forth upon his way.

The night was dark and the forest paths narrow
and difficult with their overarching trees and dense
undergrowth, and he knew the distance to be very
great, though its actual length he had never learned.

How was it then that so few steps brought him into
a track he had never noticed before? How did it
come to pass that this track led him so swiftly and so
easily into an open space where few trees were, and:
whence it seemed to him in the summer darkness that
he was looking upon a great plain?

He walked forward a few more steps and then



IN FARLEY WOOD. 59

turned to cast a farewell glance upon his woods; the
darkness was thinning before the coming dawn, but
no wood was to be seen. The increasing light fell
upon him, a solitary figure in a wide landscape of hill
and valley, and on the horizon the towers of a great
city.

Then his heart leapt up with exultation and longing
for the new life before him, and with one look back
towards where the vanished forest had been, he set
7 his face towards the city.

In the great city of towers and palaces, amongst the
young men and maidens, in the midst of song and
laughter and music, his soul on fire with the glory of life
and his eyes filled with its beauty, dwelt the child of
the woods. Day by day he rose eager for his draught
of life and learning, and music ahd beauty; night by
night he lay down to dream it over again and long for
the morrow. How far off and dim seemed now the
old woodland days—the little hut, the wind’s song in
the trees, the old passionate desire to pierce the heart
of the mystery they guarded! He laughed gaily now
when he remembered all this—gaily, but with a tender
gaiety, as we laugh over the remembered follies and
fancies of our childhood. Could it be really he, the
darling of the city, the prince among his fellows,
the admired of all, who had grown to manhood
solitary in that humble hut amid the trees; whose



60 SYLVIA BROOKE,

most intimate companions had been the wild creatures
of the wood; who had felt that there, in the solemn
forest, under the moonlight, lurked the great secret?
How far away and foolish it seemed! Why, there
was no secret after all but to drink the cup of life to
the very dregs, to live and enjoy every hour—every
moment—to the utmost, to seize the passing joy, to
make the fleeting hour one’s own!

But sometimes, at night, when the wind was high
and the stars blazing and flickering in the deep vault of
space, and he could not sleep for the surge of life in
his heart, he would throw open his casement and lean
far out, gazing over the level plains. Then it seemed
to him that very far away on the horizon’s verge, so
dim and indistinct that he knew not if it were a reality
or only a shadowy illusion, he caught a glimpse once
more of the forest he knew of old lying sombre and
mysterious under the sparkling stars; and into his soul
there crept again for a little space so vivid a memory
of that old love and longing, that the life of the city
fell away from him like a dream, and nothing was true
but the old life and love.

But the feeling passed, and when morning came and
woke him afresh, the old life was once more the
dream and the new the reality.

So for many a day he lived and laughed, until at
length the life of mirth and dance and song, of rose-
strewn paths and the golden wine-cup, began to pall



IN FARLEY WOOD. 61

upon him and he grew weary of it all; and the secret
was still unsolved. The woods were vanishedfor in
the broad daylight never a hint of them showed upon
the horizon—and the road to them he did not know,
even if he had wished to find it; and that he did not
in spite of his weariness, except at passing moments
when night brought their distant outline, or the vision
of it, to his wakeful eyes.

No; the city was his home now, and in it he would
remain. And so he lived on there, while one by one
the reckless companions of his youth fell like himself
into gravity and weariness, or dropped out of know-
ledge and were seen no more, leaving no trace in the
gay city with its castles and towers, which forgot them
each one as he went.

And he loved a noble lady of the land and laid his
heart at her feet, and when she smiled and accepted
the royal gift like a queen he felt he had found the
secret at last, and that all his days until this supreme
one had been waste and weariness. But the noble
lady was false; false her heavenly eyes, and false her
smiling mouth, and she gave him back his heart nigh
broken with despairing pain, and the secret was still
unsolved.

Many a day he mourned silent and alone. Then he
arose and cried to friendship to heal his wounds; and
he chose one from among his fellows to be the friend
of his heart, his guide and example, and together they



62 SYLVIA BROOKE.

followed learning and wisdom, and gathered strength
and knowledge from all they touched, and in high con-
verse and mutual love and trust they walked amongst
men, doing good to all, the while their names grew
sweet in all mouths,

But the most faithful friendship cannot shield the
beloved from the dart of Death.

His friend lay dead before him, and pray and
entreat he ever so urgently and tenderly, answer was
there none;—and the dark grave hid the secret well.

Love and friendship both gone and life made empty
by their loss, he fled from amongst men now, and
building himself a solitary tower on the outskirts of
the great city, he lived alone with knowledge, seeking
if he might so forget the faded glories of his youth—
the baffled hopes and longings of his manhood. There
he lived and studied; pursuing nature to her inmost
recesses where science weighs the very stars in the
heavens. And science told him many a secret, but
never the supreme one for which he had yearned in
the woods of his birth, and for all his wisdom there
came no more to him the old sense of something to
be discovered—the key that would unlock the whole
mystery of life,

So the days and months and years went by again,
and youth was long long past and his face towards the
setting sun.

Then, one clear night, as ie sat in his tower watch-



IN FARLEY WOOD. 63

ing the full moon rise and put out the stars, his back
towards the city and its shining lights, his face towards
the wide plain, something, some faint echo of days
long past, plucked at his heart-strings, making them
vibrate as they had not done for many a long day. :
A strange yearning for he knew not what, a blind cry
for something but half understood, shook his very
being. ,

He rose and leaned far out from the casement.

Before him the moon’s silver disk swam upwards
into the clear sky. Was it the same moon that had
swayed his childish heart—the moon he had loved in
the woods? The woods!—ah! where were they!—
where and how could they be found if one had a mind
to seek them? Were they a reality? Had they ever
existed, or were they but a childish dream—was all
life but a dream? And the secret—the secret that
had haunted him so long—was that but the dream of
a dream }

A soft wind sighing fanned his cheek, the moon’s
rays silvered the broad plain, and somewhere near by
the tower’s foot a nightingale began to sing. With
the song there sprang up in his soul a mighty rush of
remorseful desire for the old woodland life, the silence
and the music of the trees, the old worship of the
beauty and the search for the mystery it both ex-
pressed and hid.

Then with a low cry of longing he laid his forehead



64 SYLVIA BROOKE.

upon his clasped hands, and a tear—unwonted visitor
to his quiet eyes—fell over them. When he looked up
once more the moon had risen high in the heavens and
the nightingale had hushed her song for a time. He
gazed across the spreading plain, lying in a haze of
silvered gray in the moonlight, towards the far-off
horizon; and as he looked—slowly, slowly, and leagues
away on the very verge where earth and sky met—
there grew into shadowy form a mighty forest his
heart recognized with a leap of joy and welcome.

Delaying not a moment, he descended his tower,
turned at its foot to wave a last farewell to the sleep-
ing city where so much of his life had passed and lay
buried, and setting forth across the plain began his
journey homeward to the land of his birth.

It was a long and toilsome journey this time, but
hope kept his heart up, and the thought of all the
woods might hold for him.

At last, one peaceful evening, as the sun’s last rays
shed a golden radiance on hut and flower, he raised his
eyes from long pondering to see before him a dense
wall of foliage, a forest of dark pine and fir—the goal
of his long journey. With a cry of joy he made a
step forward and was once more in the heart of his
native woods!

So again the little hut sheltered him, the clear
spring gave him water, the wild fruits food, and weary
and worn he returned to nature to be comforted and



IN FARLEY WOOD. 65:

soothed as she had tended and protected his happy
childhood.
Once more he lay at the foot of the giant fir-trees
and heard the magic music of the wind in their highest
branches. Once more he watched the unfolding of
leaf and blossom, the life of tree and herb, and listened
to that charmed silence of the woods which is but the
more intense from its myriad voices. The shy squirrel
as of old sped from branch to branch, until, embold-
ened by his motionless attitude, it ventured near him
and looked curiously at him with its bright eyes. The
song the robin sang to his mate might have been the
very same song, sung by the very same bird, that had
charmed his boyhood. Time and change lost their
meaning as he listened; and as the shades of evening:
fell, and twilight silenced the songs of day, the night-
ingales, whose notes had seemed less rare among them,,.
began their solitary melodies and made night musical.
So day by day he haunted the woods with the pas-
sionate love of his boyhood increased tenfold, and day-
by day grew into greater intensity his belief that here.
at last, after all that had come and gone—loves and.
hates, and hopes and fears, and disappointments and.
failures—joys and sorrows alike grown shadowy now,
he should find the secret of life, that mysterious secret.
which should reveal the inner harmony of the universe,
and which every pulse of his being had strained te.

discover.
(489 ) A BE



66 SYLVIA BROOKE.

Some day—somehow—he knew not when, or after
what strange fashion—the mysterious whisper of the
trees to one another would become plain to him, the
secret would be his for evermore, and he should see
into the very heart of life and count its beatings at
their.source.

And the days went by and the love and the yearn-
ing grew greater; but the forest had not spoken, nor
the spirit of the woods taken on any visible shape to
satisfy his eyes wasted with the fire of his great
desire.

It was midsummer now, and the sun’s rays fell all
day long in bright shafts and gleams through the
green roof upon the earth beneath, where nature’s new
beauty was fast concealing the faded record of what
had been last year’s fresh young life,

At night the waxing moon sent her silver beams
amongst the tall trunks, and looked down upon the
solitary worshipper with her gentle radiance as though
she pitied him. For now he lay pale and wan beneath
the trees, all his life in the hollow eyes which still be-
sought of his ancient love, the woods, that their secret
might be his before he died.

At dawn, while the moon paled in the brightening
sky, there came a little breeze, a soft wind which woke
the trees to a lazy whispering.

“Tt is coming now!” he said, and he sat up with
wide eyes and straining ears to listen,







IN FARLEY WOOD. 67

But the whisper died away, and presently the sun
was high in the heavens once more and the secret a
secret still.

And the sun sank and sank in the glowing west,
leaving a paling glory behind wherein shone the lamp
of the evening star to herald the radiance of the full
moon. Before her coming star after star brightened
slowly in the darkening sky, and when her first beams
silvered the soft gloom of the woods, and the bats
flitted noiselessly in and out of her rays, and the trees
began again their rustling talk, once again he said:

‘Surely I shall find it now!”

But the soft voices of the night, though they kept
their old mysterious enchantment for him, made
nothing clear but his own vain longings.

At last there came a day when the little breeze
wooed the trees at dawn, and the sun rose and gilded
the topmost spires of the trees and woke the woodland
life to gladness; but he who had loved Nature, and
sought her secret with unquenchable devotion and
desire, lay weak and weary beneath the trees, and
lifting his wasted eyes to all that beauty sighed
softly:

“O woods I have loved, I die of my vain long-
ing!”

And the sun ran his course through the long day,
and his beams fell lovingly on the weary worshipper,
but could not bring back the light to his tired eyes;



68 SYLVIA BROOKE.

the squirrel ventured boldly to his very hand, and
the birds twittered close around him to bring a wan
smile to his white lips. Ever and anon a little wind
arose and the trees whispered overhead. Then some-
thing of the old passion shone in his eyes, but it
passed, and he only sighed wearily.

Evening came and the star with its lamp, and then
the moon swam up into the sky and silvered the
woods once more. Airy forms like embodied mist
seemed to flit in and out amongst the trunks of the
trees, and from time to time a light laugh like an
echo of elfin revelry woke the silence as if to mock
him.

Suddenly he sat up, all the fire of his old desire, all
the ardour of his search, all the passion of his love
in his hollow eyes—wide open now and shining with
expectancy—his ears astrain and his lips apart.

It was coming at last! His long seeking was well-
nigh over now—the supreme secret would be his
before he died!

All around -him the tees bent and swayed as if to
embrace him, while amongst their branches the soft
night wind rose and fell; and as he listened there
came an ineffable joy into his pale face and shining
eyes.

Was yonder shadowy form coming nearer and
nearer in the radiant moonlight the very spirit of -



IN FARLEY WOOD. 69

the woods grown visible at last to his longing eyes,
and charged to deliver the great secret to his longing
ears }

With a wild cry of supreme delight he arose and
fell at the Shadow’s feet.

He ee care = secret now, but the =e smil-
ing lips held it fast; and the moon faded, and the
sun rose and dried ine dew, and the wind and the
trees sang and sighed their old mysterious song for
the closed eyes and deaf ears of their lover, to charm
his last sleep as they had charmed his first.

Sylvia’s eyes had grown large and dreamy as she
listened, and when the story was finished she was
silent for a while.

“Did you like that story?” asked Miss Milner.

The child sighed,

“Yes, very much,” she said; “but I wanted him
to find it!”

“So he did, dear,” answered Miss Milner; “so we
all shall some day.”

The child knitted her brows.

“But what was it?” she asked, “TI want to know
what it was,”

“Ah, Sylvia! I don’t know myself; but we shall
discover some day.”

Sylvia still looked puzzled.



70 SYLVIA BROOKE,

“IT wish—” she began, and then suddenly breaking
off with childish impulsiveness, “Oh, there’s some
one coming along the path!” she cried. “Oh! could
it be Father?”

“Father is not to be home till six o’clock at
earliest,” said Miss Milner with a funny little smile.

“Oh, it’s Mr. Evelyn!” exclaimed Sylvia; “I know
his brown hat—I’m so glad! Mr. Evelyn! Mr. Evelyn!
we're here!” she called as she started off to run to-
wards the doctor.

Miss Milner stood quite still and said nothing at
all, but she did not seem as much surprised as Sylvia
was; perhaps because the happy event was not quite so
unexpected on her part. She smiled as Sylvia, cling-
ing to Mr, Evelyn’s arm, brought him up in triumph
to her side; but she did not shake hands with him,
which Sylvia thought rather odd.

‘How did you know where to find us?” she asked.

“Why, you told me yourself this morning,” he
answered; and she laughed merrily.

“Did I?” she said.

‘Am J in the way?” he asked. “TI will go away if
Tam.”

“You must ask Sylvia,” said the girl.

“Sylvia never finds me in the way; do you,
_ Sylvia?”

“Oh, that’s not fair! as if she could say yes when
you ask her yourself! Sylvia, listen to me and don’t



IN FARLEY WOOD. 71

mind what he says;—don’t you have a great deal too
much of Mr. Evelyn?”

The child had been listening to the talk between
her two companions, a little mystified by its tone, but
this question was quite intelligible to her and she had
no doubt whatever about her answer to it.

“Tf I saw Mr. Evelyn every moment of the day,”
she said fervent “T should never have too much of
him.”

Mr. Evelyn was not so unmindful of his little
friend’s constant affection and loyalty as not to re-
ward her with a very kind look and “Thank you, my
dear little Sylvia,” before he turned again to Miss
Milner and said:

“Ah, Betty! I wish you could say as much.”

Betty laughed again her gay sweet laugh.

“Don’t flatter yourself with that idea,” she said.

“Why won’t you make a poor fellow a pretty
speech for once in a way?” said Mr. Evelyn; “it
wouldn’t cost you anything, and it would please him.”

“Because, William Evelyn—as Aunt Deborah
would say—you, like all the young people of the
. present day, have such a very good opinion of your-
self that there is no need to add to your conceit.”

She looked at him with sweet impertinence as she
spoke.

“Do you really think that, Betty?” he said a little
wistfully.



72 SYLVIA BROOKE.

The girl’s expression changed swiftly.

“No, I dowt,” she said very gravely and earnestly.
“T don’t. Why, Will, don’t you know that I wouldn’t
have you different from what you are for anything in
the wide world? Don’t you know that I don’t make
you pretty speeches because if I once began I should
not know where to end?”

“Betty, my darling—” began the doctor; but she
stopped him, laughing, with her pretty: hand on his
outstretched arm.

“William Evelyn, you forget we are not alone.
What would Aunt Deborah say?”

“JT don’t care what all the Aunt Deborahs in the
world say!” he exclaimed; “but never mind, I can
“wait now.”

“Well, let go my hand anyhow, and tell me what
time it is. I’m sure it must be getting late, and
Sylvia must be at home by six.”

The doctor obeyed.

“Half-past five,” he said; “look, the sun is quite
-set.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the young lady; “we
have only just time to get back before six. Sylvia,
‘dear, where is that book? Oh, I put it in my pocket,
-of course! How thoughtless of me not to remember
about the time before. It’s all your fault, Will, you
tiresome man,”

“It won't take us half an hour to get back,” said



IN FARLEY WOOD. 73

the doctor; “and you'll have my valuable assistance.
Come along, Sylvia, take my hand and I'll help you
over the ground.”

The little girl had been looking from one to the
other of her friends a little puzzled by their talk and
behaviour, which seemed somehow new to her. But
she took Mr. Evelyn’s hand with the feeling of
contented safety his presence always gave her, and
the three set off.

Sylvia was aware that as Miss Milner walked on
the other side of Mr. Evelyn he drew her hand through
his arm and held it in his. She looked up with an
involuntary glance of inquiry in her eyes,

“Tell her, Will,” said Miss Milner; “I thought I
could, but somehow—I couldn’t manage it.”

“Sylvia,” began the doctor, “you love Miss Milner,
I know—you have told me so often. Well, would
you be glad to hear that she is coming to live in
Woodleigh—not only to stay at Mrs. Fane’s every
year ?”

“Oh, are you—are you really?” cried the child with
sparkling eyes. ‘Oh, I am so glad! Isn’t Mrs, Fane
glad?” ;

“Well,” answered Mr. Evelyn, “I hope she is.
But, Sylvia, Miss Milner is not going to live with
Mrs. Fane; she is going to be much nearer to you.
Wouldn't you like to have her near you—neat door to
you?”



74, SYLVIA BROOKE.

“Next door!” said the child with eyes full of wonder.
“Next door—at your house?”

“Yes, at my house. Sylvia, she is going to be my
wife, and we are all going to be so happy. Are you
not glad, dear?”

“Oh, yes! yes!” cried the little girl, so excited with
the news that she was fain to stop and throw herself
upon Miss Milner to kiss and caress her.

Miss Milner held the child in her arms and returned
her kisses tenderly. “I knew I could trust to Sylvia’s
welcome,” she said.

“Well, Sylvia,” said the doctor, haven’t you kept a
kiss for your old playfellow?” and Sylvia tore herself
from Betty’s arms to throw herself into Will’s. —

“You are the very first person we have told, Sylvia,”
said Mr. Evelyn, “and you shall be the very first
person that comes to tea with us—with Betty and .
me.”

“Oh, how nice! how delicious! Oh, do be married
as soon as ever you can!” cried Sylvia, skipping from
pure delight.

They both laughed.

“Tt can’t be too soon for me, Sylvia,” said Mr.
Evelyn; and so talking and laughing they passed
through the village and reached Sylvia’s home.

“We're not too late after all,” said Miss Milner;
“the stable gates are shut. Make haste in, dear, and
be ready to welcome your father as soon as he arrives.



TEDDY’S DOINGS. 75

Good-night, dear, good-night!” and with loving fare-
wells to both her kind friends Sylvia ran into the
house and upstairs to her little bed-room.

A

CHAPTER V.
TEDDY’S DOINGS.

EANWHILE, during Sylvia’s absence, Nurse had
been finding time hang rather heavy on her
hands, First of all, Baby had been fractious over
being dressed for his afternoon airing, and had made
sundry pulls at Nurse’s cherished “fringe,” which she
was in the habit of curling elaborately with a hot iron,
to Baby’s ever-recurring delight in the process. Per-
haps some unformed idea of doing the most unpleasant
thing he could do to her in revenge for her forcing his
unwilling little arms into the sleeves of his pelisse,
led to his pulling the aforesaid fringe, but anyhow
he did so, whereupon Nurse slapped him—not hard
enough to really hurt him, for she was a very kind-
hearted girl in the main and devoted to her nursling;
but the slap offended his dignity and he lamented
loudly, and for a long time would not be comforted
by caresses or coaxing—or even sugar. When he was
at length appeased, and, having vindicated his right to



76 SYLVIA BROOKE,

an opinion, allowed himself to be dressed—as good as
gold, as Nurse said—the afternoon was getting on,
and a special appointment for four o'clock Nurse had
made to meet Susan, Mrs. Burton’s nurse, who was
also to be out with her numerous charges at that hour,
would in all probability fall through, since by this
time Susan must think she was not coming and would
have left the trysting-place. Nurse was much vexed
at the idea, for the subject of the expected discussion
was to have been the merits and “intentions” of a
certain George Tatlock, a young farmer of the neigh-
bourhood, who had given signs of having fallen a
victim to Nurse’s high-coloured comeliness. And if
Susan had really imagined her unable or unwilling
to keep her appointment, the discussion—down to the
slightest detail and up to the most soaring possibili-
ties—of this most interesting theme must he given up
at least till the next day, perhaps longer.

Nurse hurried Baby into his perambulator, and
hastened to the place of meeting; but, alas! her fears
were realized. She waited ten minutes—twenty—
half an hour, with the faint hope that it was Susan
who was late; but no Susan came. Master Teddy
resented the delay, and teased in baby fashion from
time to time to be permitted to get out and walk;
and at last Nurse gave up her hope, and pushed for-
ward in that of meeting her friend returning -by the
same way she had gone. However, Susan must either



TEDDY’S DOINGS. 7

have decided to come home by a different road, or have
originally taken one of the three that led from the .
meeting-place different to that chosen by Nurse, for
they did not meet.

Considering that Baby’s misdemeanours were solely
responsible for the delay which had spoilt her plans,
Nurse was to be commended for not slapping him
again, She did not, though she rattled the perambu-
lator along the road in a way that shook him up some-
what, while it relieved her irritated feelings. Baby
seemed in no way to connect the two ideas in his
mind, however, and prattled to “Nanna” as cheer-
fully and innocently as the jolting left him breath for;
probably he looked upon it as an accident of travel
to which it was beneath his dignity to object.

Nurse had not quite recovered her usual good-
humour when she and her young charge got home.
She was a little rough with him as she took off his
out-of-door garments, while he looked at her with
that infantine surprise at her conduct which is irre-
sistibly conducive to repentance and kisses in the
aggressor. He had probably quite forgotten his own
bad behaviour; but perhaps he remembered Nurse’s
slap, and was prepared to resent a repetition of it.

But Nurse attempted nothing of the kind; she only
laid the tea for him and herself—for Sylvia was to
have hers with Geoffrey at their parents’ dinner on
their return—with more clatter than was absolutely



78 SYLVIA BROOKE,

necessary, and after the meal was over, made her pre-
parations for the child’s bath and undressing ‘without
her usual chatter of loving nonsense to him. The
nursery was dark, for the window was small and of
diamond-paned glass, heavily leaded, and the evening
light was fading. Nurse lighted a couple of candles,
and, putting one on the table and the other on the
chimney-piece, took Baby on her knee and was on the
point of unfastening his white frock, when Ellen, the
housemaid, looked into the room.

“T say, Mary,” she began, “wouldn’t you like to
know who’s in the kitchen?”

“Who?” asked Nurse, a look of intelligence bright-
ening her face. ‘You don’t never mean to tell me
it’s that George Tatlock? The idea of his coming
after me here! Like his impudence!”
her head with affected pride. “Did he ask for me,
Ellen?”

“Why, of course he did, as if you didn’t know
that!” said Ellen, “ Aren’t you coming down to see
him?”

“How can I leave the child?” exclaimed Nurse.
“Tt’s just my luck! Wherever can Miss Sylvia be?
Her Mar ‘Id be very angry if she knew she was out so
late. She'd a taken care of Baby for a minute.”

“Oh, Tl look after him,” answered Ellen good-
naturedly; “he'll be good enough with me, I'll be
bound. Won't you, Baby?”

and she tossed ~



TEDDY'S DOINGS. 79

Baby had been looking on at this colloquy with an
air of the deepest interest, but without making any
remark of his own; but now being directly addressed,
he rubbed his pretty curly head against Nurse’s
shoulder and piped:

“] want Nanna—Nanna not go!”

“T won't be a minute, my blessed pet,” said Nanna,
hugging him to her and covering his fat neck and
arms with kisses, ‘You stay, like a good boy, with
Ellen, and Nanna ‘ll bring him up something nicey-
nicey out of the kitchen. Here, Ellen, take him,”
she went on; “Tl be up again ina minute. But it
does seem a pity to miss him (him meant George Tat-
lock this time) when he’s come a purpose, don’t it?”

The good-natured Ellen assented, and taking Baby
“on her lap set to work to amuse that young gentle-
man to the best of her ability during the “minute” of
Nurse’s proposed absence.

Somehow the minute grew a rather long one; it
lengthened itself so much, indeed, that by degrees
Ellen began to feel a little aggrieved. It was all very
well to be good-natured and offer to take another
person’s work; but then that obliged person ought to
have some little consideration and not keep one all
night waiting for her return. Mary might remember
that she had all her own work to do in the bed-rooms;
and missus would be in a fine way if she found no hot
water in her room on her arrival. Besides, Baby was



80 SYLVIA BROOKE.

growing sleepy, and consequently a little fretful; he
refused to look on Ellen any longer as a sufficient
substitute for his “ Nanna,” for whom he asked every
few minutes in a pathetic voice that threatened a
speedy change into a cry.

Ellen sat on some few minutes longer in that state
of irritation with another which dims one’s own sense
of right, and at last rose hastily, sat Baby on the
floor, and with strict injunctions to him to keep quite
still till she came back, and not touch anything, went
quickly downstairs to interrupt the farewell of Mr.
George Tatlock and the offending Nurse with an angry
reminder that if some people could find time to spend
hours dawdling at the backdoor, she, for her part,
had her work to do, and couldn’t put off doing of it
no longer for no one.

“All right, Ellen,” answered Nurse, “J’m coming.
You needn’t be in such a taking about it. I’m sure I
haven’t been ten minutes.”

The farewells were delayed even after that for a few
moments, and then Nurse came back into the kitchen,
a look of great consequence and satisfied vanity on her
comely face. Ellen, who was still there, in spite of
her pressing need to set about her work, wore an air
of offence; but the sight of her brought back in an
instant to Nurse’s remembrance her ee of her
little charge. ;

“Goodness gracious, Ellen!” she cried, “where’s



TEDDY'S DOINGS. 81

Baby? Is Miss Sylvia come in? You didn’t leave him
by himself, surely?”

“Yes, I did,” answered Ellen a little sulkily; “I
came down to look for you. Bless you! he’s right
enough; he was sitting on the floor as happy as a
king.”

But Nurse had not staid to listen to more; she had
flown upstairs to her forsaken nursling, angry with
Ellen and repenting of her own carelessness.

Meanwhile, Baby; left alone, had at first sat on con-
tentedly enough. Having made an ineffectual attempt
to make a plaything of the soap, which insisted on
slipping out of his dimpled fingers just when he
thought he had made it an easy prey, and then having
turned his attention to an endeavour at unbuttoning
the straps of his little shoes, with a laudable wish to
help in the intricacies of his own toilet, which did not
meet with the success it deserved, he began to look
about him for some fresh and stirring form of amuse-
ment.

Suddenly he caught sight of the very thing he
wanted—something beautiful in itself; for had not
his sleepy eyes watched its wavering brightness night
after night until the tired lids fell over them? and in
addition possessing the charm of.a forbidden pleasure,
for “No, no; Baby must not touch the candle!” was a
saying familiar to his ears.

Baby scrambled to his feet, and seizing the end of
(489) F



82 SYLVIA BROOKE

the table-cloth to help him, in the act, to his great
delight, drew the coveted candle almost to the table’s
edge. A moment more and he had seized it, over-
balanced himself in his eagerness, and fallen on his
back, candle and all.

When Mr. Evelyn and Miss Milner left Sylvia at
the house door she ran at once up into her own little
bed-room, took off her hat, washed her hands,
smoothed her hair, put on her pretty white serge
frock, and then went along the passage to the
nursery, intending to wile away the time until the
return of the dog-cart in looking out for its coming
from the window at which she had sadly watched its
going three days ago. Baby must be in bed by now,
she thought, and Nurse would enforce silence until he
was fast asleep; but she would persuade her to leave
the blind undrawn that she might catch the very first
sight of the carriage as it came through the village.
She had been so happy with her two friends, and Miss
Milner’s kind words had so soothed and comforted the
little girl’s heart in the remorse she felt over the
failure of her promise to her father, that she had
almost forgotten it. But now the thought of it came
back to her, and she sighed. The drive to Heresford
she had so longed for was gone, she felt sure; but if
father would only believe she had really tried to be
a good girl—and Miss Milner had assured her he



TEDDY’S DOINGS. 83

would—she could give up the drive with. compara-
tively little reeret,

Sylvia loitered a little along the passage while these
thoughts passed through her mind, and she had
almost reached the nursery door, when a cry from
behind it—a strange, frightened cry—that seemed to
be in Baby’s voice and yet unlike, made her start
forward, fling open the door, and rush in hastily.

On the floor, by the table from which the cloth had
almost slipped, lay the little brother, the candlestick
beside him, and a quivering tongue of flame creeping
along his white frock,

The child’s heart gave one of those awful leaps that
seem to stop life itself, but she uttered no cry. Some
half-formed memory of stories of danger by fire and
its prevention sprang, under the agony of fear for her
darling Teddy, into full comprehension and action, and
seizing the blanket laid ready by the bath for him to
stand on, she threw it over him, and regardless of his
cries and struggles, pressed it tightly round him until
every particle of flame was extinguished. _

Then the child’s strength and heart failed, and
overcome by the terrible shock and the pain of her
scorched hands, she fell forward across the little
brother whose precious life she had saved without a
thought of her own, pale and senseless.



84 SYLVIA BROOKE.

CHAPTER VL
SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH.

\ RS. BROOKE had spentavery agreeable afternoon.

If she had felt for a moment a slight sensation
of regret with regard to Sylvia before she left home,
and had thought for a moment that she might have
been a little hard on her that morning, it left but
little impression on her mind, accustomed to account
for all failures of patience on her own part, and
inability to “manage” the child, by the often-repeated
excuse of Sylvia’s obstinacy and oddness; so easily do
we find the most excellent excuses for our own short-
comings in those of others.

The day was a delightful one for driving, the horse
as steady as he was spirited, Job a trustworthy whip
—tfor Mrs. Brooke was nervous—and last, but very
far from least, she had on a new bonnet from Paris of
the latest fashion, and which her glass told her was
extremely becoming. Any lady living in a country
village, starting on a round of calls in the neighbour-
ing town, and conscious of so great an advantage in
the matter of millinery, will understand with what
complacency Mrs. Brooke set forth on her drive.

The event did not disappoint her expectation; the
Paris bonnet was an undoubted success. Several of her



SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. 85

lady friends complimented her on it; one, a great
admirer of her pink prettiness, adding that she would
look well in anything, but that in this triumph of the
milliner’s art she was really lovely. And the charms of
the bonnet were more subtly, but perhaps even more
agreeably, testified to by the way in which one or two
other ladies, though silent on its merits, furtively
kept their eyes on it while appearing absorbed in
conversation with its wearer. Mrs. Brooke knew at
such moments, as certainly as if they had told her,
that they were considering the possibility of keeping
its general features sufficiently in their memory to
order something of the same sort at Miss Gunter’s—
the first milliner in Winston. Her pleasure in this
sincerest form of flattery was not diminished by any
fear that Miss Gunter’s efforts would approach in
“style” the Parisian head-gear; and, as we all know,
style is the one mark to be aimed at in millinery.

Mrs. Brooke’s visit had taken so much time, all the
ladies she had called on being at home, that she had ~
at last to hurry to the station to meet her husband
and son. For a wonder the train was exact to its
time, and in a very few minutes the whole party were
in the dog-cart. :

“T must go into the office for half a minute,” said
Mr. Brooke, “just to see if there are any letters of
importance; but I won’t keep you waiting more than
asecond, I'll bring them home to look through.”



86 SYLVIA BROOKE.

He drew up at his office as he spoke and leaped
down.

“Nothing of much consequence,” he said as he
mounted to his seat, and they started again.

When they were out of the town and on the country
road to Woodleigh, and after Mrs. Brooke had asked
all dutiful questions about his mother’s health and
doings, and had listened with motherly tenderness
and admiration to Geoff’s account of his share in the
brief holiday, Mr. Brooke, who had asked how Sylvia
and Teddy were in the first instant of the meeting
with his wife, said suddenly, after being silent for
some moments:

- “T wish I could have taken Sylvia too. My mother
would have been so glad to have her there for a bit,
and it would have done the child good—though I
should miss her sweet face. She must pay her grand-
mother a visit some day soon. By George! Emily,
she'll be the very image of my mother when she’s
her age.”

Now there were two things in Mr. Brooke’s speech
that rendered it not altogether pleasant to his wife;
for, as we know, her husband’s admiration for his
mother was somewhat of a sore point with her, and
his reference to Sylvia’s “sweet face,” which she had
inherited from that mother, was also something of an
offence.

“TI can’t have Sylvia spoiled by spending any length



SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. 87

of time with your mother,” she said coldly.- “I don’t
wish her to have her head turned with flattery, and
petting, and running wild, and then have her back
more tiresome and difficult to manage than ever.
Only to-day she has been as naughty over her lessons
as she well could be (the twinge of remorse Mrs.
Brooke had felt for her own share in Sylvia’s bad
behaviour was quite forgotten, you see, under the
irritation her husband’s -words caused); yes, ex-
tremely naughty. You must speak seriously to her
about it, for she is quite beyond me. If she goes to
your mother to be allowed to do just as she pleases,
there will be no doing anything with her.”

Mr, Brooke slashed at an overhanging bough with
his whip.

“Good heavens, Emily!” he said in a voice that
betrayed strong annoyance, “can’t you let three days
pass without bringing that unfortunate child to grief
over something or other? She’s always in disgrace
about one thing or another.”

“T bringing. her to grief, John!” in a tone of deep
offence; “J bring her to grief, indeed! You know as
well as I do that it is Sylvia’s own ill-temper and
obstinacy that bring her into disgrace. I am sure I
do my very utmost to manage her in the right way,”
she went on plaintively; ‘but it’s no use.”

Mr. Brooke was silent for a moment—perhaps try-
ing to find words to broach a subject hitherto tacitly

1?



88 SYLVIA BROOKE,

avoided between them without rousing his wife’s
sense of injury. He felt it had been a cowardly avoid-
ance on his part, caused by his dislike to “scenes” or
reproaches. Then he said gently:

“Wouldn’t it be possible to try a little love, Emily ?
No, don’t fly out at me; I am not accusing you of
having no love for the child, and I don’t doubt for a
moment you're trying to do your duty by her. But
she’s a loving little soul, God bless her!—as I dis-
covered only too late, to my shame—and I can’t but
believe that if you could give her a little of the love
—the kind of love, I mean—you give Geoff and Teddy,
you'd find her wonderfully amenable to it.”

Mrs. Brooke was silent, and he hoped his words
had made the impression he desired; so, instead. of
leaving them to work, what does the honest man do
but add, perhaps with some vague idea that his wife
was likely to be more moved by outside criticism than
by his own:

“Even my mother noticed when she: was last here
how differently you treated. Sylvia and her brothers.”

Mrs. Brooke actually bristled with indignation.

“TY am deeply obliged to your mother for her inter-
ference with my affairs,” she said in icy tones. ‘So it
was in consequence of your discussions with her over
my conduct that you made this grand’ plan of sending
Sylvia to visit her grandmother! Many thanks for
your kindness; but I prefer to keep Sylvia at home,



SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. 89

where I can save her from Mrs. Brooke’s spoiling,
. although day by day I have to endure the effect yours
has on her.”

“Well, you can congratulate yourself on there being
no chance of her showing any evil effects from yours,
at any rate!” said her husband with biting sarcasm,
and fell silent again, angry with her for what he called
her “hardness”—angry with himself for his want of
tact in bringing his mother’s name into the question.

“Well,” he thought wearily to himself, “I must
give the child a double share of love. But it’s hard
lines for a girl to have to put up with ‘duty’ instead
of love from her own mother. My poor Sylvia!”

Mrs. Brooke did not address her husband again.
She spoke over her shoulder from time to time to
Geoffrey, whe during his parents’ discourse had been
too busy recounting the events of his holiday to Job
to pay any attention to its subject; but to Mr. Brooke
she did not say another word until they drew up at
their own gate, when her frigid “Thank you,” as he
helped her to alight, did not speak of any relaxation
of her sense of offence with him.

The house-door was unfastened, as it. always stood
in that peaceful village, and they entered. The hall
was empty; but Sarah, the parlour-maid, was laying
the table in the dining-room.

“Why, where’s Sylvia?” said her father. “Sarah,
isn’t Miss Sylvia in?”



90 SYLVIA BROOKE.

“Yes, sir,” said Sarah; “she came in a short time
ago. She must be upstairs in the nursery.” :

Mr. Brooke ran hastily up the stairs. Somehow
the way his wife had received his words on the sub-
ject of her treatment of the little girl had waked a
great tenderness in his fatherly heart for the one of
his children least loved of their mother, and he felt
an impulse to greet his little daughter with unusual
warmth—to kiss and caress her so tenderly as to hide
the coldness his ill-judged addition to his first speech
might probably bring into his wife’s manner to
Sylvia.

Geoffrey had gone round into the stable-yard with
Job, and Mrs. Brooke had already begun to ascend
the stairs towards her room. Before she reached the |
landing she uttered a sharp exclamation and hurried
towards the nursery door, for her baby’s voice in loud
lamentation was heard from within, and she and her
husband entered at the same moment.

No one was to be seen, but from the other side of
the table Teddy’s cries still rang forth. Father and
mother both started forward, and there lay the little
brother and sister, Baby lamenting at the top of his
voice, unable to extricate himself from the blanket in
which Sylvia had wound him, but otherwise unhurt;
while the little girl lay across him, her scorched hands
still clutching the sides of the blanket and her face
hidden from sight in it. The dragged table-cloth, the



SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. 91

fallen candle, and Nurse’s absence told the tale with-
out any need of explanation.

Father and mother seized each a child, with a cry
of ‘My baby, my baby!” from the poor mother; while
Mr. Brooke’s low “Sylvia, my darling!” as he lifted
the senseless child in his strong arms and gazed terror-
stricken into her white face, would have filled his little
daughter’s head with joy could she have heard it.

Baby’s frightened cries had ceased almost as soon
as he was in his mother’s arms, and she came quickly
to her husband’s side as he sat with Sylvia’s limp
form pressed against his breast, while he examined
every limb to see if she was seriously hurt. The
sight of the poor reddened little hands drew a groan
from him.

“O, John!” said Mrs. Brooke tremulously, “is she—
she isn’t—dead, is she? O, Sylvia! my dear Sylvia!” -

How often Sylvia had longed to hear her name so
endearingly spoken in her mother’s voice—longed in
vain! She had bought it at the risk of her life now,
and her ears were deaf to it,

“No, no,” said Mr. Brooke; “she is not dead, thank
God! She’s in a dead faint. Ring the bell and order
some brandy, and send for Evelyn immediately. Thank
God the little fellow’s all right, anyhow!”

As Mrs. Brooke obeyed, Nurse rushed into the
room, her master and mistress having arrived un-
known to her while she was still prolonging her fare-



93 : SYLVIA BROOKE.

well to George Tatlock. She stood aghast when the
group within met her sight, and then burst out crying.

“Stop that!” said Mr. Brooke sternly. “This is
not the time for explanations or reproaches. Do what
you can to help now. Send someone round to Mr.
Evelyn and ask him to come at once, and then take
the baby and let your mistress help me.”

The girl obeyed, and coming back silent and sub-
missive, took Teddy and wept over him with many
tearful caresses, while Mr. and Mrs. Brooke did every-
thing in their power to restore Sylvia to consciousness.
For a long time she showed no sign of life; then her
lips stirred and parted and she gave a faint sigh; and
then her dark eyes opened, at first blankly, then full
of trouble and perplexity, to find herself lying in her
father’s arms, and, wonder of wonders! her mother
kneeling beside her, love and anxiety in her face!

The troubled look in the child’s eyes melted into
one of clear comprehension, and. she half-raised herself
in her father’s arms.

“Where's Baby?” she said weakly; “oh, where’s my
‘darling Baby? O, Father! he isn’t dead, is he?”

“No, my darling, no!” cried the father and mother
dn a breath; and Mrs. Brooke burst into tears.

“You saved his life, my little Sylvia!” her father
-continued; “we owe his precious little life to you!”

The child gave a long sigh. “I thought he must
‘be.dead,” she.said; and then, “Where is he?”



SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. 93

Mrs, Brooke rose, and taking Teddy from Nurse’s
arms, where she sat apart crooning over him and
watching with beating heart for Sylvia’s recovery,
brought the little fellow to where the child lay against
her father’s breast. She knelt down with the little
one in her arms to bring his pretty face close to his
sister's; and then Sylvia put her two arms round him
and kissed and cuddled him to her heart’s content,
until Mr. Evelyn came hastily into the room, looking

- grave and anxious, for he had been out when Ellen,
horror-struck at the result of her carelessness in leav-
ing Baby alone with the lighted candle within his
reach, had rushed round to beg Mrs, Barker to send
the doctor in as soon as ever he got back, for Miss
Sylvia and the baby were “dreadfully burned!”

Under Mr. Evelyn’s directions the little girl was un-
dressed and put to bed, lest the shock and fright, and
the fainting-fit that had ensued on them, should have
any evil effects, The flame had scorched Sylvia’s
hands, and now that the excitement of the danger and
her fears for Teddy’s life were past, they began to
ache and burn. Mr. Evelyn wrapped them in oil and
wool, and she was laid cosily in her little white bed,
and then the ache grew less, and she lifted up her face
to kiss the doctor good-night with one of her sweetest .
smiles.

“You are a brave little woman,” said her old friend;
‘we shall be proud to have you for our first guest.”



94%, SYLVIA BROOKE,

After Mr. Evelyn had gone, and Geoff had entreated
to be allowed just to go in and tell his sister what
a “regular brick” she was, Sylvia had at last fallen
asleep, her father remaining some time. by her side,
lest, left alone, the terror of the remembrance of the
past danger might come over her. A little later,
however, she woke suddenly with a frightened start
at what she thought must be the middle of the night,
to see by the light of the candle her mother sitting
by her side.

“Mamma!” said the child softly.

“ What is it, my dear?” asked Mrs. Brooke in a tone
Sylvia had not often heard addressed to herself from
those lips. “Are you thirsty?”

“Yes, Mamma,” she answered.

Mrs. Brooke brought her some milk and water and
held it to her lips.

Sylvia laughed a childish little laugh.

“How funny it seems to have no hands!” she said,

. Perhaps Mrs, Brooke thought at that moment from
what awful loss and grief those little scorched hands
had saved her, and at what risk; for there were tears
of both love and remorse in her eyes as she put down
the cup, and bending over her daughter, put her arm
round her and said brokenly:

“Sylvia, dear, I am sorry I was cross to you to-day;
we must try to get on better for the future.”

It was not a very eloquent speech or magnificent



se”

SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. °95

concession, but it was a great one for such a nature as
Mrs. Brooke’s to make, and perhaps meant as much
from her as a passionate declaration of sorrow from
another. Anyhow it was enough, and more than
enough, for the generous heart of her little daughter.

“O, Mamma! it was my fault!” she cried. “I
will try to do my sums properly.”

“T am sure you will, dear,” answered her mother,
kissing her again. “But now lie down and try to get
to sleep.”

Sylvia obeyed, and lay quiet and at peace in the
thought that she was the happiest little girl in the
world ; for Baby was not hurt, Father always loved her
dearly, she was to be Mr. Evelyn’s and Miss Milner’s
very first guest at tea, Geoff had called her a “ brick,”
and now the one thing she had longed for was come
to her, for Mamma really loved her. So thinking she
fell fast asleep, and did not even wake when Father
came in later, and kneeling by her bed laid his head
down by the little dark one he loved so well, and
thanked God with tears that the light of the lustrous
eyes had not been quenched in darkness that day, and
that his little daughter's courage had snatched her
beloved little brother from a frightful death.

THE END,



Koh Ol 24













Full Text


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describe
'181723' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKFX' 'sip-files00011.jpg'
c9d8d83c5d75a47f1fad755d9b0b9db3
6689f89efd9bc1e2d90a1d806ca904fb0f533df2
'2011-10-12T22:08:41-04:00'
describe
'35994' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKFY' 'sip-files00011.pro'
d7ff651e5a47407fc70917086c432c13
c0337e71c8bb6cc431dd86515ce7ae7604df306c
'2011-10-12T22:10:19-04:00'
describe
'70732' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKFZ' 'sip-files00011.QC.jpg'
b525bdb5abf9dab2bcca3cd3c0c2643d
048d1e51a37e7730942d9d68c89b1063486978e9
'2011-10-12T22:10:15-04:00'
describe
'2319716' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGA' 'sip-files00011.tif'
3488e9317e34efe4109b22c6fe0e3b39
2a877c566e722af1d1de3b81c704b0dcd6348174
describe
'1515' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGB' 'sip-files00011.txt'
d7317cada73a98995e1e425553afba70
9b7a8d2241481d3ab6a25c1cebaf1aa378ad06c4
describe
'32669' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGC' 'sip-files00011thm.jpg'
00f8c0e59de32d356090d2e7c18bc1df
6af871a7fde3ea022f0b55b2cb2c040995ae29bb
'2011-10-12T22:08:44-04:00'
describe
'287245' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGD' 'sip-files00012.jp2'
14f3ba0043b4b2c9813f80c176c318e4
6287edc930b07014989b491734b4a04f46737884
'2011-10-12T22:10:14-04:00'
describe
'182636' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGE' 'sip-files00012.jpg'
e41a41451f3ce20eaa11afa34a576e14
6b9419139c44d45795cbe1a3618083d4be5c8140
describe
'35939' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGF' 'sip-files00012.pro'
0b87cbe2ab0fe5e3d9101b560deee611
328ab017187d1e02d8c1a13c14ca940c25c9645d
'2011-10-12T22:08:50-04:00'
describe
'69846' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGG' 'sip-files00012.QC.jpg'
29fe79b79b66b6830509ac3614190e34
9aca54edef17c4482b1542b50a705730d8651a0a
describe
'2319608' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGH' 'sip-files00012.tif'
8198457dc9f7937e0179f2ddaf05d11e
54c394c7af19c5c05da01de996af29c894f898ae
'2011-10-12T22:09:54-04:00'
describe
'1468' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGI' 'sip-files00012.txt'
d098598e31baa10ea8044919e4c0dcf7
44c313741a3c318eb23cdd74d4f68121a8304370
'2011-10-12T22:08:59-04:00'
describe
'32795' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGJ' 'sip-files00012thm.jpg'
dc0aa7002cf6c162e17ad8f2109e8b63
30543108b1e763998cd109fedd0933284a1292fa
'2011-10-12T22:08:46-04:00'
describe
'287259' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGK' 'sip-files00013.jp2'
8b759d57e95548cac9cdd6805bbbb638
fc5f62d696570e80b1c71a15d83d7a1acab545df
describe
'176886' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGL' 'sip-files00013.jpg'
afef42b6b28c5a83be449fa99a011ff8
5acaee02e4f305f26b2a9e078d30e07e2ed348d9
'2011-10-12T22:09:02-04:00'
describe
'33434' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGM' 'sip-files00013.pro'
349e0517ba4184e80eee1e0c62662e11
5667440f03ad71280fba0cf4db059074736e643f
describe
'68034' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGN' 'sip-files00013.QC.jpg'
68e730d05eee03019ac16980e4691364
1cff4292c6e2365639606cec917c29ee3f806b93
'2011-10-12T22:09:56-04:00'
describe
'2319620' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGO' 'sip-files00013.tif'
007b4dbc9217cb8a499c5dd695ac0054
13cd0198ff637342c16ad49056e6f3df67e3f0de
describe
'1397' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGP' 'sip-files00013.txt'
a2b1291a84684080ef1a8ec48c39ca04
6d581d2f04cdcbbef59e378923db67603ad3ef66
describe
'32647' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGQ' 'sip-files00013thm.jpg'
6b198f745e2df0b61b71c72f237530ca
8381c9309253599e9f10879e3c54579b3760305b
'2011-10-12T22:10:12-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGR' 'sip-files00014.jp2'
e4f5dcb58a889f0c6f9a8160ad8c2219
ed6ca78df793f0a8d8d64336c8d902d71289b482
'2011-10-12T22:09:53-04:00'
describe
'177370' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGS' 'sip-files00014.jpg'
b3a20d9e70a0671eb1e8630784e00576
630b338bb6a262ef6c26e19bc1fa853612b31f84
'2011-10-12T22:10:03-04:00'
describe
'35504' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGT' 'sip-files00014.pro'
6a9424a1f769aac18e398ebb4ec047f6
a108696e760264a16149d2650fd904c68a66d4b2
describe
'67630' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGU' 'sip-files00014.QC.jpg'
35e779c05a0a6c21710c9734257f5d39
6b9f90bc187744c993d1a8c0c92f575bdc65da27
'2011-10-12T22:08:34-04:00'
describe
'2319512' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGV' 'sip-files00014.tif'
5c52cd06b736c46067f50aa8abcc582d
bdbfbda7694f63b54d1ee06964e6fd3064f36205
describe
'1405' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGW' 'sip-files00014.txt'
e38249f2c57e5ada330482e0138f994d
c582da359ab52822599c1282626ed44f6fcd2463
describe
'32544' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGX' 'sip-files00014thm.jpg'
8c7ff2aa25c3d743a46681419291ff56
6a7f089063206c90bc800e355697d58bde50859d
describe
'287260' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGY' 'sip-files00015.jp2'
a56ab3acd140bbe3e7b9844f4b31d180
3774d115b9ccca17c582c1a3337d5e55ea0d1dbd
'2011-10-12T22:08:52-04:00'
describe
'181921' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKGZ' 'sip-files00015.jpg'
7d5dfa1434a2aef2db9af5b4261f8cd4
3d60810dbbb4cf6b57b01e84b7758c96b84d3999
'2011-10-12T22:09:24-04:00'
describe
'35399' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHA' 'sip-files00015.pro'
b9bc6d9fd466e34b2317c1f2f5baba93
270b7113e08212e86e9745450df6c10e1780ce77
describe
'69709' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHB' 'sip-files00015.QC.jpg'
2d3d6208cd792f261d348a2c5df8a9a3
cc9643d6bfcbff49f26c171e52d1351ae6f04225
describe
'2319556' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHC' 'sip-files00015.tif'
d0732a239b96427b35168630547db626
8dec928c5a33c022534483e2d7ae5fedc80401cf
'2011-10-12T22:10:34-04:00'
describe
'1486' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHD' 'sip-files00015.txt'
ef9aaaa34a54a171099fbbf85e6c70fd
caf819fd2be5b2d69b833af0fe2c77fff8203fac
describe
'32519' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHE' 'sip-files00015thm.jpg'
702342d849b19b8ae8076df864b4b18e
0f0e251ae99dc9653739968f746d019b96417527
'2011-10-12T22:10:23-04:00'
describe
'287243' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHF' 'sip-files00016.jp2'
4b3a3c6a752e1ecc6820ab911efd30d8
d87cf1584e000b4db7bcaa555a3516b486f1e486
'2011-10-12T22:10:32-04:00'
describe
'188642' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHG' 'sip-files00016.jpg'
e0f1fffe63f03fd647f4f6e685ca80a5
ed37d95801aacf798808a29fc5b431fbd04cb812
describe
'35683' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHH' 'sip-files00016.pro'
f96ad94d5dca2af4e10482c20430575d
d43d81f7e2666517c8a39c23b4258f94343c13ed
'2011-10-12T22:09:39-04:00'
describe
'72512' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHI' 'sip-files00016.QC.jpg'
bf5753d18b05856a88946ab3d152abb2
11e0e8abcec7e1a47d155beb905b4d6d170d0a12
describe
'2320000' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHJ' 'sip-files00016.tif'
93456f61f5566513ec9ec4d704dbae0c
0f5434fced3a4126df0ac3d5d88103dcab45c744
'2011-10-12T22:08:58-04:00'
describe
'1465' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHK' 'sip-files00016.txt'
b71edabadf1dbdd71ddfa6c9ac51bb6d
aafcc850d9442a73af934b08e3a91e056f8e7999
'2011-10-12T22:08:54-04:00'
describe
'33825' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHL' 'sip-files00016thm.jpg'
1379d2ef12bdd607ff0ce61b9a7011de
30f90bd4963ac877e0fc8cdf8e62239817ba8f08
describe
'287248' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHM' 'sip-files00017.jp2'
5f09af57ebe9195bbf8e50e618020284
b1afb032e117e71c75c72d06425d6c5fa3998070
describe
'187123' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHN' 'sip-files00017.jpg'
3191ebde655193c889ed20350d6c31b3
a8089fde958359476c9e5b101dfe9836289c4551
'2011-10-12T22:09:09-04:00'
describe
'36425' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHO' 'sip-files00017.pro'
f407b3e12349e67d44d93880c3ac6925
48a6a5bd6cafb68620e62d49c2e15b11c15e8739
describe
'72885' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHP' 'sip-files00017.QC.jpg'
430b62139c35c8c4124490531e241f31
5271f73359712da668f1fa7a88338ae1d73e29e6
'2011-10-12T22:09:17-04:00'
describe
'2320132' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHQ' 'sip-files00017.tif'
5766785d6cb202076fb46b60a1fdb487
a5e8448ab840ae52a09d8115b25d8b7cff9b6532
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHR' 'sip-files00017.txt'
232d7ac6d364dad0a1da6976e8f72637
ddad2d90307dd25c0c51c9261e9629bb7002e068
'2011-10-12T22:09:30-04:00'
describe
'33921' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHS' 'sip-files00017thm.jpg'
8140358993a84c23abaa840367514a01
cf348ca7a24fd48631a3a1a59547a4a40f3c4a78
'2011-10-12T22:09:07-04:00'
describe
'287262' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHT' 'sip-files00018.jp2'
82a211bb484fe18a70970c09a45a9740
0c6e03858ce39da274cab1405aaf6266417dd0b9
'2011-10-12T22:08:42-04:00'
describe
'178611' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHU' 'sip-files00018.jpg'
069cf961b13a407dcd02350010aac0a2
26e88c053a99d15e3f3130a83bdd510af1e6bc85
describe
'35928' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHV' 'sip-files00018.pro'
6d56a47fa269495beb74d66e0c06c3bd
fa05dfa1034264f3306d09fbae04b5ec118bd3c6
'2011-10-12T22:08:30-04:00'
describe
'69503' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHW' 'sip-files00018.QC.jpg'
f212865c523b369320272e002bb5bef5
aa4d503c608d12f65dccfa94b69de1d85102b053
describe
'2319540' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHX' 'sip-files00018.tif'
3615d57811f42cc1928e1cad668ceb80
7006cb65d08ae0d3d18f9cf0ba25d859542a7d96
describe
'1476' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHY' 'sip-files00018.txt'
3fca50ef123319ba0a9803c86022ff55
1f9922ddf1761b9245e018f3d48e0d1811b0cdb3
'2011-10-12T22:08:27-04:00'
describe
'32173' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKHZ' 'sip-files00018thm.jpg'
743c7948f5a30a4cec0b8f47deaa8411
fe9de5b22c5474a4f4a589a1b6695f39c878e966
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIA' 'sip-files00019.jp2'
c3dd2eb6627ad5a9d618a193bdc7c858
6906ff9071d1a0096325bf6b2c0b209cd542fccb
'2011-10-12T22:09:20-04:00'
describe
'186973' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIB' 'sip-files00019.jpg'
d271850671fdce59f84cf7b238d7e346
7492994e75d016d437a5b243d00eff69853119c3
describe
'36463' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIC' 'sip-files00019.pro'
b4db3413f45abe6c4b38ede08318a8b7
e7d5d7131788b9ab2330a9049609ce31004db8d0
describe
'71936' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKID' 'sip-files00019.QC.jpg'
6b99eb30a115afb7a8e21ec4243d0cce
c5dc2eabd6bd3646d55aaeab88aa566b27d8b057
'2011-10-12T22:09:06-04:00'
describe
'2319728' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIE' 'sip-files00019.tif'
e3965cbdaed659ab57deb525c0e5c693
feb9b4e67d24e7173036664e8b0e4f4460411aa6
'2011-10-12T22:08:31-04:00'
describe
'1538' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIF' 'sip-files00019.txt'
79750c5d61bd80c8ad44593c77b2454b
f14954fec126072a3599f467086cd3683ac75177
describe
'33220' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIG' 'sip-files00019thm.jpg'
52b48fe79776401ac7a8a3622b0169a6
ae2c7a5869d1d6e4acca7012415744cd7597015b
'2011-10-12T22:10:21-04:00'
describe
'287222' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIH' 'sip-files00020.jp2'
75daf622e50b83bb45fda83d1a6abfa4
0faeafb87e9d9a42ebf8f9b94db599aa4e434f2c
'2011-10-12T22:08:47-04:00'
describe
'191101' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKII' 'sip-files00020.jpg'
095705e7c6078b5cb32093ffd785a76b
ced7de70392088d9346ed965286400505de4ade1
'2011-10-12T22:09:57-04:00'
describe
'37946' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIJ' 'sip-files00020.pro'
045a7f10e7d25b275815b55f191e8369
344a36d4eed8f78eceee5ec67265401114729f62
'2011-10-12T22:09:23-04:00'
describe
'73464' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIK' 'sip-files00020.QC.jpg'
4e78971cc663922ffdd36685e1214983
aec61bcc4809c9a8fc3134604025062b7404c694
'2011-10-12T22:10:38-04:00'
describe
'2319848' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIL' 'sip-files00020.tif'
5bb8d4fd4ea6245167012aaf6aec3e73
31616add00133cc5c3101ac5e221a6e1d51e754e
describe
'1508' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIM' 'sip-files00020.txt'
c1d12e32692d9f40ce355edb5e1176c0
4c31d38d0a307907d96872ab4236d28d9eed8d2b
'2011-10-12T22:09:08-04:00'
describe
'33635' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIN' 'sip-files00020thm.jpg'
6c1e83b44904dbe26c08b8ea9f0e804d
664cbcf99621eee5faf497470b9d9c27d6cd8615
'2011-10-12T22:10:35-04:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIO' 'sip-files00021.jp2'
4d7322f8554bc69dd07c529ece263e5f
2e847374aca3e6f46b412381f99d309aeb8d2b81
describe
'184246' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIP' 'sip-files00021.jpg'
a6fbade0185c06ef45946d7c7ee93ce4
8ec76528ed430bcc256fe45b3c4bea96400b6e9d
describe
'34360' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIQ' 'sip-files00021.pro'
92e54a1b50bfd95a4e7380b8e018e9bb
275a4f3a4017a31546712d7739e56b54961c2d41
describe
'71115' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIR' 'sip-files00021.QC.jpg'
bed3dcf0403d45c2172eabf2571549c6
d550bcb620121468ff5ec861b00b3e37f163ab35
'2011-10-12T22:09:34-04:00'
describe
'2320092' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIS' 'sip-files00021.tif'
b85dca1ee8d1edda2ad408a929679e02
70ae818b8953199208630cacd2d61fe3c21e9cfb
'2011-10-12T22:10:45-04:00'
describe
'1427' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIT' 'sip-files00021.txt'
4eff87dd62865c7686aa57e89f1030de
65cdc052dae50b70bdc11f623187783f1d2891ff
'2011-10-12T22:09:04-04:00'
describe
'33488' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIU' 'sip-files00021thm.jpg'
82ed67c598ebad02ca30950807bc7af7
05914724927bc6b50fddce7ace38f1b0111bc528
'2011-10-12T22:09:01-04:00'
describe
'287206' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIV' 'sip-files00022.jp2'
b1588882db6f3ffb4cfded3b4feceb83
ea7a727d05566110bb0b9fba5c137f48eaf51426
'2011-10-12T22:09:48-04:00'
describe
'184768' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIW' 'sip-files00022.jpg'
1bc64b5f4362acf5f723714abb9d3d83
b6b038b7b7b3b8c837278157a9f79811fce4a09e
describe
'37756' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIX' 'sip-files00022.pro'
0059538111ab713b7f7350102958eff9
1d427ec37148e0f9a682c526e67ac35088fc698c
'2011-10-12T22:10:31-04:00'
describe
'71561' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIY' 'sip-files00022.QC.jpg'
ae25ae8972d310ded0cd18e65ada1a74
4251fbc0f973da745dcfc9208ab4c07ad30cdd30
'2011-10-12T22:08:45-04:00'
describe
'2319920' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKIZ' 'sip-files00022.tif'
ca11ad59011e29f04b7be59c9f5ddae4
0a50abef76297538b84651add1b3f2a6d3a6b766
'2011-10-12T22:10:37-04:00'
describe
'1510' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJA' 'sip-files00022.txt'
0b80ca703d371a5dabd7392b3a507f66
5afd21f7be422c8b4f6a51e38199792032ce791f
'2011-10-12T22:09:46-04:00'
describe
'33552' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJB' 'sip-files00022thm.jpg'
37f4faff8f0b94cd9cd077c987762266
c6ab46acd3d68862b67aebd2ec3b6f84a65b46d8
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJC' 'sip-files00023.jp2'
31054082e62e61528ab302f48d8dc53d
61345ee3aaea2c6eb47d590ee65003fa5295930a
describe
'183943' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJD' 'sip-files00023.jpg'
b5474072640dd163cdc83895ba66105f
69306912a22c5346a47bb22b33248b54ea6bb721
'2011-10-12T22:10:39-04:00'
describe
'35658' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJE' 'sip-files00023.pro'
723d49aeadadcb1d70a991cfb3a06dca
2f01d87f667a242d5867c9df8a6ae99cc2b13ad4
'2011-10-12T22:10:11-04:00'
describe
'71641' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJF' 'sip-files00023.QC.jpg'
66ea2f59715e8204f223f2053bb1e917
59de57d4bc2ac102eaeb91a1970cdcd5ffccf518
describe
'2319876' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJG' 'sip-files00023.tif'
6d44f3a60bb3cdc15d5b6f9c9a72109c
c55ddd77c9dfa4fcfdefcfd89432a59633bf3dce
'2011-10-12T22:08:40-04:00'
describe
'1512' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJH' 'sip-files00023.txt'
a90bcc69de642ac27f0afd1d4bed9c51
725c1db2f3bdc94aa6bd8bda9f978d437da4a7b3
'2011-10-12T22:08:57-04:00'
describe
'33262' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJI' 'sip-files00023thm.jpg'
4ee671ee3a20aad461da4cee20775b3b
72f2f9be2e4de0902c11466a9d4d97c07c588f9f
describe
'287180' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJJ' 'sip-files00024.jp2'
36e9db3b41cad997aa32678c9dbfb43f
a6d5a5c7b180f1f9d98a380a76471781c5276cdb
'2011-10-12T22:10:05-04:00'
describe
'184586' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJK' 'sip-files00024.jpg'
4bdcfb7644a2d48bbb698e2aa5ac4425
a1331a0b64db8768af62b5f66114c2f5c61c953f
describe
'35699' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJL' 'sip-files00024.pro'
3cc3b73ae032bab11ef156bbf18f7593
12f0b32926892c4876dd48a6c787d9b981c0a380
'2011-10-12T22:09:58-04:00'
describe
'70865' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJM' 'sip-files00024.QC.jpg'
c44647fbea3160e78b173bec23b3d134
a01526964ad1cb05bfe0bd7356c21d0eb20580d2
describe
'2319760' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJN' 'sip-files00024.tif'
3ae1e7134d91c194d56e7bd3f81e22b6
c2c630d0b6342b2445e929efd156b31d5962565e
'2011-10-12T22:09:11-04:00'
describe
'1483' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJO' 'sip-files00024.txt'
12fb5f7feb836e7a34169fe9dbd72d43
c9bb7b6defcbc9675b0eb63fda050b69e0d4d7dc
describe
'33122' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJP' 'sip-files00024thm.jpg'
3f387907223e7e64ce3b4154bdf1bdcd
1e7a75e41359746bf7bd38a2a33e25f5418fa48c
describe
'32832' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJQ' 'sip-files00025thm.jpg'
202f901bba95e7bc1c73c113f9d32c6c
7c5714c4315cf179a0779cf07a8a9f1cdfab3f6d
describe
'32816' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJR' 'sip-files00026thm.jpg'
0a41d8e07e7ffb5d7c3abed191303763
120e75697a92f64c9e7d7afe92339b596cf3562e
describe
'287255' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJS' 'sip-files00027.jp2'
4cf099777daefd8e3477963b8e57c8f8
a044c82c0a5396cc4c3e409b228b524395e029c9
'2011-10-12T22:10:09-04:00'
describe
'180342' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJT' 'sip-files00027.jpg'
4ff7bae646a5656d2838f969c766c60d
dd05288d3cde907d6b453effb6a9034facea8f41
describe
'35651' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJU' 'sip-files00027.pro'
17c693fabf0aff3dc5ae495a03ac7d2c
a352af3cf15ba16a357efe98d626837e656968df
describe
'70177' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJV' 'sip-files00027.QC.jpg'
f2b5ee6a9ed4976b321f4999e0e7f0b4
6260a62f5145bf5148d42ab0a856c6e5a60b85f5
'2011-10-12T22:08:43-04:00'
describe
'2319756' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJW' 'sip-files00027.tif'
1085f593030464b497fc78c5f35b27b4
5e24eaa63213a9fb82821017ffae0e3b7f1d1c30
describe
'1454' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJX' 'sip-files00027.txt'
2ede1371ca63d6c6d5ea6e75e8a6fbb5
4e1815286895da172210461222ab0ed71a84e004
describe
'33049' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJY' 'sip-files00027thm.jpg'
99021e4cccc88d2ccbf4aa78b1666f3e
636e0674e20f65f19aae200cf9167015c9466e11
describe
'287258' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKJZ' 'sip-files00028.jp2'
4a6578052563c1c95851d635a1eb49d1
a658628c91ca29e501a16896bac1c9719354b4bd
'2011-10-12T22:08:53-04:00'
describe
'181878' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKA' 'sip-files00028.jpg'
ba870da37e94c22e0f8e49d8c6f4c764
4484808c4595894820e62d56d5e8dd8710eb53af
describe
'35008' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKB' 'sip-files00028.pro'
9f0275dcf0ea449d47d56f44d29af073
cbd855386bc75b7730a1f688f554afd184e9b4fd
describe
'70612' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKC' 'sip-files00028.QC.jpg'
9dd12c89e5607fb7682f45d324db3b4a
f623575ae4566d6eb17aeb87126a4b642d27e3a6
describe
'2319588' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKD' 'sip-files00028.tif'
3c7278753334fb45b2285950a98ce83e
aad742ffc5d1c30e2785f6e61d779507056e6bc9
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKE' 'sip-files00028.txt'
b63f58b64e98bc5bf8b6e0c7a630bb38
4cdfd40e9497cf3c8c56e06d1f501e21363e65f2
describe
'32896' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKF' 'sip-files00028thm.jpg'
6f683d9b6bfe8dd2f127cc8bb954bca1
117a4c5093e901b7d8050a2310b6dcf22cce9217
describe
'287215' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKG' 'sip-files00029.jp2'
9f4395f0f4845543750ddc497cf61f31
ffe2c5cec33b9d94bb26f083586c08a054bdaf33
describe
'148663' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKH' 'sip-files00029.jpg'
5b1fb268a8f7da29e24391833ef9a5ce
30c472d545b37e3584ea5bf1654ac938ef78c856
describe
'25726' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKI' 'sip-files00029.pro'
1945008d97daeab8e2a1520c593641d0
564beb69ed2d32bc71903470dab4b16dd4953d8e
describe
'60541' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKJ' 'sip-files00029.QC.jpg'
7a155ec163efb652498f863369d6c0a8
b3ffb195b22337cb1133fc593c536d1f514e016f
describe
'2319048' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKK' 'sip-files00029.tif'
784b564a9e1e3afc63703f2979d9ebf6
ec8bf328b2a445a6473aad332abe15725fd41834
describe
'1118' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKL' 'sip-files00029.txt'
03297dac5553465d1d6ea488e3419560
db4a35d22e138254f2ac0dfb47facd251c12b956
'2011-10-12T22:09:36-04:00'
describe
'30584' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKM' 'sip-files00029thm.jpg'
1805c00f209cbb5c4a8b3c25e010caab
9e7f2c1de1c7687433300bbb103c0057aa6f9604
describe
'287214' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKN' 'sip-files00030.jp2'
71cecacd772f2d6454833b889c3cf1f0
34969833a46413b3fd5afa2af0eb25ac71e9c269
describe
'184408' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKO' 'sip-files00030.jpg'
01d6e728b42c879d7ae77f596ba8f8c1
8ae561671d501fb9a51256f7328c899aabf6d9dd
'2011-10-12T22:09:27-04:00'
describe
'35497' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKP' 'sip-files00030.pro'
167e78b8eae7de4eb39901234951c30a
b130ff8c68253a46eca70cf37a145827b0870e5a
'2011-10-12T22:10:26-04:00'
describe
'71506' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKQ' 'sip-files00030.QC.jpg'
89f1290b59cdaefb88e5a283d0796782
a996120f25f56736d659c8e2ae59e46485e05188
describe
'2319576' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKR' 'sip-files00030.tif'
7a444fae4b2734908613b7cbd56e4df0
6cf36e47c84aacf8fdd7bec9e5e13def038a1964
'2011-10-12T22:08:38-04:00'
describe
'1447' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKS' 'sip-files00030.txt'
bce2e4c6a3449e772b0bd0064db3ee0a
2d8737a3f65323b5575301714259fc7a4107a17d
describe
'32686' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKT' 'sip-files00030thm.jpg'
1c5d19e56e2a597a7ac182dea447f1b8
dccfe938f6bc66ed374ca636c2f2805826589f78
'2011-10-12T22:09:21-04:00'
describe
'287217' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKU' 'sip-files00031.jp2'
88a5125a001bee06aa9bdfe6b8ef4f50
16c5db992825ed2fc8b40ab69d816f6c538be6c4
describe
'187189' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKV' 'sip-files00031.jpg'
6e063694a20548937ca068ab636671c3
90c0921588cfb3be8826f3fcc97db05e0e3937bb
describe
'36614' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKW' 'sip-files00031.pro'
a27cc91a785026b9a4c3a5db4e982776
24541af8487b4b2ede29ef296b0835736e170bfa
describe
'71767' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKX' 'sip-files00031.QC.jpg'
c24e10239e289885901387e693d45fca
02095702f1e9a1f6894dd580018c384523eff2f3
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKY' 'sip-files00031.tif'
ac67cf3f7d62f36724ab91c9417aeaf0
39435f3c2bafbbe34cfb42de5850806b2260380b
describe
'1541' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKKZ' 'sip-files00031.txt'
efda753a06d5e7b94ab50842ce522ae7
8501ec04ce622435b2b30d73d06ccc43f95be229
describe
'32761' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLA' 'sip-files00031thm.jpg'
79afc6453b931d5b9e91d41ca00ccc17
67e0e5a4f401f697e23878602d32f32ba4852514
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLB' 'sip-files00032.jp2'
7c483cded043ff0859c0fbaf666fa696
49345530cd9f9ffaac10ee6dd63d59a3a42efb27
describe
'172030' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLC' 'sip-files00032.jpg'
01468116851bbf4cf00542bc0b16cbed
884fd0e58015d64c2e2f339dc2a024dbd497f2e8
describe
'32952' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLD' 'sip-files00032.pro'
6f1d66aa084e3f74f242759f1b96e40e
75e6cf994849186ef22c213578139b32385b9b1a
describe
'67472' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLE' 'sip-files00032.QC.jpg'
6114b19790b800d1f238124f508649b8
ed6ade6bb9f444101ce4ede84db7a58855ba15fd
'2011-10-12T22:09:41-04:00'
describe
'2319484' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLF' 'sip-files00032.tif'
b5035106cbbddb59c5ef2f3eecebbfb1
e29b7467744d326256cc6f29c55f8a748086ec76
describe
'1375' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLG' 'sip-files00032.txt'
95bb181e85eac34d6e6d5c36714d9c7e
64fafd4e9fea25f29b9ed25b7a7df3731769b61f
describe
'32325' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLH' 'sip-files00032thm.jpg'
5921c223bfb6f9a377584c3157f6f33f
6819f2d49fbc2b155ee38c608eeeaf01bd49ee5d
describe
'287224' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLI' 'sip-files00033.jp2'
274b71b75e97ed20b49c42dd542b0e0f
f061529f420dd3e3f5862a24f927ddb9a6839ff0
describe
'184260' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLJ' 'sip-files00033.jpg'
cc29cc9b0b4a1ec7c92c9639f361c4ed
9ffea89214bd040434756cf4c4fef38d672e3a6b
describe
'37845' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLK' 'sip-files00033.pro'
02fe875d84442c626f0fcc597625cd9e
14ad6779e7153dd0ae8b5ea46c0975c0ac09ea96
describe
'71189' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLL' 'sip-files00033.QC.jpg'
5a49bc31f84589eeb2b3dc05b7e8e7dc
5124c2eb8b5c801aa907fe2463bc9d9c26aa43f3
describe
'2319636' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLM' 'sip-files00033.tif'
b67819b00f917354578b8269fc2c7313
086d7b525297a6f76b164f7037efb313a6131c87
describe
'1497' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLN' 'sip-files00033.txt'
73f427e97481da6641717d82880afee3
38d1a0814513038a7bbb89b15bc384b96a1255fe
describe
'32866' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLO' 'sip-files00033thm.jpg'
9d530e61cdd02f70e2a0b14605a337fc
7a25a3d5986fe142e664841f37acdb4b825e55a4
describe
'287199' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLP' 'sip-files00034.jp2'
167c9189c36924c7447d4c147f06c197
8ec2f64f9d371f04763b43b308f1b1dd276d3860
describe
'178511' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLQ' 'sip-files00034.jpg'
b86a231afdc0c9ec89e19441cec57da5
64496fe8decfccd780d784422cb3ea718d04e210
describe
'33492' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLR' 'sip-files00034.pro'
751d1813632686fa1548e27865c5be87
c37fce3982e4c10f90577fa85c7a12d7d38399f5
describe
'69031' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLS' 'sip-files00034.QC.jpg'
5c163af94140acf3f561cc2fd99fa6e2
be621fe8eade73d4d743b3a924a80cab52bb72a2
describe
'2319776' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLT' 'sip-files00034.tif'
055bb6652159b049fa73d7654c05eefc
7d19cdd0d274a4fba4a29c1c8a28dce80eab3810
describe
'1394' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLU' 'sip-files00034.txt'
32e67a378f341abda4537f26e8f68b98
ef874b58b2323a7e4e461d8f4eb620e5bad80bf2
describe
'32543' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLV' 'sip-files00034thm.jpg'
c3c0d301c95c2f36f2597afed6a6b508
bd6d104aca3ab057c1b25b88a5893f5729062557
describe
'287211' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLW' 'sip-files00035.jp2'
7073f9c4c0e0d9d561cd6ba72ade9466
ef098c7b165a398f081e835e8425f4b9d8798d01
'2011-10-12T22:08:28-04:00'
describe
'175956' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLX' 'sip-files00035.jpg'
feb5c849d7d4b5089af9d36bc0ada2d1
6c1d575cd8a00768a79d04ba083cbc4d08381d3a
describe
'33084' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLY' 'sip-files00035.pro'
88454f564748563eee37d0a42f0136db
7cb71645bf3598400817f68209b0bebe9d3f2234
describe
'68500' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKLZ' 'sip-files00035.QC.jpg'
33bd278d05d33c4587a668be66db10f3
4a7a192064eb1a9af0cef0f9c04037760e71fa7a
describe
'2319732' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMA' 'sip-files00035.tif'
a641e2b04e67fc829647833133b93d2b
ebc6e59680f30297dfb56dd5af6c54066036c16e
describe
'1401' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMB' 'sip-files00035.txt'
2ffd37a3ee16a9d868f01618cec23017
5dc5ce69bcb1302a58394243dcbb863ca1b65779
describe
'32875' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMC' 'sip-files00035thm.jpg'
dfe90ca0a849092bb3264105556c5abe
f8258c2daffb56e41781d1099ba7e7bf6a1ae96f
describe
'287264' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMD' 'sip-files00036.jp2'
44daa68885d3a83b422b96ef467388d8
7c15ead4267452eff8ae9b4e9db44927dbe43f6c
'2011-10-12T22:09:19-04:00'
describe
'177706' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKME' 'sip-files00036.jpg'
2ee9406c73b486c391984107740b7586
087ec6f2b268536f283567f3fe88b384157de897
describe
'35516' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMF' 'sip-files00036.pro'
f08419956ad9370780abbc2f035749ee
f60ec02eb158aac23fc1945e2a168f5c46ead50e
describe
'70087' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMG' 'sip-files00036.QC.jpg'
cf18f5b4b54ced94bd756272e4f2de62
05f7715633b2176c5bd0787287046a2fd630f350
describe
'2319888' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMH' 'sip-files00036.tif'
2695704f77bfc56be5ec68100f182190
ca784761ae0b1c2e194eaa2e4392babf27e828b4
describe
'1404' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMI' 'sip-files00036.txt'
4c95e4f47a943c555c3378ce13a99f52
befdba5c7f67f139ff35bfcec52afa2660be1ad8
'2011-10-12T22:08:49-04:00'
describe
'33271' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMJ' 'sip-files00036thm.jpg'
d17bebabf33757db05600dc8d9c50241
f87d13c8a4fa43a1fe25ca74fc635d8e36fcd320
describe
'287191' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMK' 'sip-files00037.jp2'
769632e18b841aee7ed31aa67576b547
54b603f8aa2a6339009f5736fba654c2a5c4b8b0
describe
'181645' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKML' 'sip-files00037.jpg'
2f9530f3832be15d23d2b00a3209b597
ca8100a22c3533d10e9eb4f245c5c5fff8a78be2
'2011-10-12T22:10:04-04:00'
describe
'35908' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMM' 'sip-files00037.pro'
98ccbe6ec2caa9a5ea09e0f9c29be8f1
f2d10a7e305897099c425c72e5bbfff94901cd40
describe
'71031' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMN' 'sip-files00037.QC.jpg'
49b6c9af2eeee784e1a17e197b16248c
c5529574e93e1b6896af63a058ed1068e6e8dfec
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMO' 'sip-files00037.tif'
1b7a924325847825cb32d3570881bebb
c9598876af3de8ab29caefa8557474f9c614800d
describe
'1505' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMP' 'sip-files00037.txt'
25c0c15fa1ade8ecb8092c56435d55d0
a48b82bd19e655e8500c5a550499125f4011d2f2
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMQ' 'sip-files00037thm.jpg'
fc6544637d26e499c5857f8d4696b9e5
dee69089cc9a07761217fb914896e40b84e2c7f7
describe
'287244' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMR' 'sip-files00038.jp2'
06491e39f6515e26bf657f7c6ea1fa48
21563c53c75de5f53023fdf2306b6afdf88691f4
describe
'186032' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMS' 'sip-files00038.jpg'
8c802771541be562ce3074632fb7d3f9
1ee7763430e0d7715da4b542ec753b7e6edbcc07
describe
'36560' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMT' 'sip-files00038.pro'
88d11fd7f7dd9f2c944279660dc96aed
f40df6cced15dd1bceb97ab7354136083ad665dc
describe
'71430' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMU' 'sip-files00038.QC.jpg'
7c8691e856269533fbc4308bb3cee017
b23efe316bec27da2c9c5838ced43c18177ac282
describe
'2319684' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMV' 'sip-files00038.tif'
8eae5c442feb6effc8b8c7405d4840e7
45ab782e1fa450d66d78b65660731c74754cd127
describe
'1492' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMW' 'sip-files00038.txt'
05999e53c2bdb651ad8dabc921e1211b
d989847aba80544f47687f5c61a0c79d673a997f
describe
'33166' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMX' 'sip-files00038thm.jpg'
4259ca28a9be15bb948ac9353d90702d
ad015f3966f5b80547b0cc06b666a3e6e2342cd9
describe
'287267' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMY' 'sip-files00039.jp2'
72a71f356165549f85500972e6cb17ff
2223dec95d860060c15847e77c41f7d81877953b
describe
'147700' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKMZ' 'sip-files00039.jpg'
ab35de16fc0ea1f4114c148300900aa9
acd39619fda35e496ab1d892b5a67cbb16905502
'2011-10-12T22:09:16-04:00'
describe
'27659' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNA' 'sip-files00039.pro'
69607d95fe0d2fb73e1733ae40879676
7d975d8ab0573a6e0a93748a7cb2744a28ea077c
'2011-10-12T22:10:40-04:00'
describe
'58624' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNB' 'sip-files00039.QC.jpg'
942d947981d4e3926b0537bb08254f0f
8c7ef153b240b34ad868e553d8f846e0c1993647
describe
'2318632' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNC' 'sip-files00039.tif'
0e1b234e3fcf38013738f282c698d8b3
9473f410463df0926fb6a431648f93d6f0280fd8
describe
'1099' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKND' 'sip-files00039.txt'
e653504f49684625b50dca7054c6bda5
91888f5fa1b689ef18922e2fc12dcb79fbfcbf43
describe
'29784' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNE' 'sip-files00039thm.jpg'
24dcdc1c41e3ca47670bff031907132b
150c1a2457682b574529116c2a6b40cf18b5a3be
describe
'287218' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNF' 'sip-files00040.jp2'
29dbd4c4a3902c402d7e6f9156d28641
a42501c15d1e620b487ceb39bd08ad35c7eec5b0
describe
'158003' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNG' 'sip-files00040.jpg'
7f960b4fbcf72c0dd2622b52aa35a2ef
6ce675ce4a11a8aaf718925267b7caa0fd16ed42
'2011-10-12T22:10:00-04:00'
describe
'30101' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNH' 'sip-files00040.pro'
5341b40428a55f644e4de6ff00d048d0
a37a919745d4408f97ace523dcffc863423242a4
describe
'62562' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNI' 'sip-files00040.QC.jpg'
d229fef9fcabc49bc93f384a1ad738df
b8a24a6efe451c31459f9e0636151ad1454cae34
describe
'2319260' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNJ' 'sip-files00040.tif'
918768e2e39ca39bfde3d99e16533fb2
d47bb24bcc42b84972d36c01f808761a64dcd770
describe
'1233' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNK' 'sip-files00040.txt'
4196c70753f7514bc013e7bddc4cce31
b96bcff64441ce1908d234ad1694f438ced92d77
describe
'30895' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNL' 'sip-files00040thm.jpg'
f9e3fa5c89c476d8e7abd92b248ee590
c0f45637c731054dd3057cb10808b12cd79fee21
'2011-10-12T22:10:30-04:00'
describe
'287160' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNM' 'sip-files00041.jp2'
54101b1b9bc22891c9df0a235605fa01
133ed34c47ffa08706bf8ca6cf00878726a5dd68
describe
'179521' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNN' 'sip-files00041.jpg'
73fafaa79b15a2ffe9c42e51a2a4eccb
cef74db8bb758d16e0a316740d77e10edae38f18
describe
'35205' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNO' 'sip-files00041.pro'
199af692defc04430adb588621e1b244
bce84bf38f264190a60f02860a9ee2b2a55a82dd
describe
'70964' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNP' 'sip-files00041.QC.jpg'
a4013eca3e3dc5ad4cf82183ef766654
616acedc0ea09d2c24fe396225d0fe7eff288eab
describe
'2319812' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNQ' 'sip-files00041.tif'
4d1f845307f9f70abf4d5c4db8772ace
54db260ef39134c79cbf5bfbcba6ea8bcb93753c
describe
'1453' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNR' 'sip-files00041.txt'
f6b665a5f731a7118812078d6e913003
53d11c21c82b94fce492f47e1a957340e0c15d76
describe
'33481' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNS' 'sip-files00041thm.jpg'
616b6abff012c8206b5ddbb55d9352d3
4140237f6f493d2cafba7fa495780f3fbb5c64c6
describe
'287233' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNT' 'sip-files00042.jp2'
d9730fd68b0241944eea394def1e7839
0460673fa612c5a2919bf2b4a9ef90815fb45270
describe
'175049' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNU' 'sip-files00042.jpg'
7b8ac762811715c0df9b1ba607424c30
80ca6660a8bba0609ec62aa4b444d315eeab83ac
'2011-10-12T22:09:45-04:00'
describe
'33613' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNV' 'sip-files00042.pro'
b81ce881f51c5c5c61fc3caf368f0839
a75ce2d6228e4fd5b8012b56b1ac793cf4b8ca15
describe
'68484' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNW' 'sip-files00042.QC.jpg'
bf7f7e7a5e4504df3601d1d47e4b541f
2f3216652c505b42ce5a1d78e11acbbaef4bf096
describe
'2319872' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNX' 'sip-files00042.tif'
61c6680c6b97a1d19c23a4a9df7620ca
6d66e454895e57f917f5dc6ce2a3a50a5142568e
describe
'1364' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNY' 'sip-files00042.txt'
f1bec9419c9f6a08934f87c677b50290
d3f9d66395bac7d606f4c7521a39d17851f54f04
describe
'33004' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKNZ' 'sip-files00042thm.jpg'
9dc1f920b63a901ee7130115762922f0
a58505059f92f8b8fdfcecb8270fa17c3281cdab
describe
'287266' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOA' 'sip-files00043.jp2'
60696799edef270174742db42395d159
43d59b48f79b6443779c884f9b10e3ae969b9049
describe
'186878' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOB' 'sip-files00043.jpg'
d253a9712541a0671f1bf7d22483ad78
4a3fcd8ce752e129b42a981e38c1fe5ecbe41f81
describe
'36695' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOC' 'sip-files00043.pro'
f69a2638680a42f59b76d7c8bd5d4417
d6d044046c73b245a1ceee5f104c8057a8143a4e
describe
'73230' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOD' 'sip-files00043.QC.jpg'
8b531975b4bd971f9963d5f66a55f4be
42fc16eae5644510d7e4da4bd3d9accc05dfca4a
describe
'2319860' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOE' 'sip-files00043.tif'
fb59cc16b87a61f7804489760cb24a5c
b28e0c14f53f2f0b4d0c10c72c0d200b161ca7e0
describe
'1552' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOF' 'sip-files00043.txt'
7fcd5753ca0b305f52fa0d49a7aac0f8
1b0ce913b5756fe827818009b0a5991aa39d9f35
describe
'33578' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOG' 'sip-files00043thm.jpg'
20ac86a51f1817900e0435a1a21a5103
d2e5f94873be06b707d38b28373d48be77760104
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOH' 'sip-files00044.jp2'
29afcd5ab6875e74fbb5128cb26ad653
5e95a81fc556ef83324f9d04ad235bc9726c4a02
describe
'181833' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOI' 'sip-files00044.jpg'
727a21d0ad1bbd540dd96d2fb833bdcb
1b4ee4a4f82e4a2572d20fe410ed256df5cd4961
describe
'37045' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOJ' 'sip-files00044.pro'
9261f5f70ab38a8da928069fff5c1485
c6200478be06cc67594997d796eb0ade6d95e0c3
describe
'70875' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOK' 'sip-files00044.QC.jpg'
2a4e2fddd3cf4046624877da741b53a7
d3880f385c202dc7cc4f2319a159bb8158bd9675
describe
'2319780' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOL' 'sip-files00044.tif'
b4de450f85cf917892f480c06b6c76d7
f3319d648029e65dbf6fc6417001f55f3e5df22f
describe
'1467' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOM' 'sip-files00044.txt'
8a043c06b90ced31e41a5db6142eac3b
291b6bde4b03d4e5e9d7d612e8aa26b8d9734fcb
describe
'33401' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKON' 'sip-files00044thm.jpg'
d16f730bf551689e7c97d9ef4c4e2085
b6d1e3f26ede417be4ef223e5ccc413819aa237b
describe
'287168' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOO' 'sip-files00045.jp2'
9f8d38f6d85c4cbe964b9b8a6fdfa366
733882e64a46c1fce199bf20781354b59b9ba9c4
describe
'183874' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOP' 'sip-files00045.jpg'
ab4d7fed7c19f385ae17a9525443e672
f3d6aa0b213029c7af314dca40df88cb9cfabc3f
describe
'35438' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOQ' 'sip-files00045.pro'
558b02cd839dbd0722afefcbc7ea610d
fb0bfb46deb12ac61986626f2b510c1c1348b6a2
describe
'71813' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOR' 'sip-files00045.QC.jpg'
652fb4acfe253f186d1aaa305d4fb065
5e8893d8edcf8fb165541370d93201d6d03c287f
describe
'2319648' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOS' 'sip-files00045.tif'
5d88ef0f1f3c8f3a50b8d6ec3b81e441
172701365461e47d16297e225bbaf232d9d13920
describe
'1458' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOT' 'sip-files00045.txt'
55acdb869e5a54c9d744058d2966de2a
ce09e96e5901199b6b0c102686d34790854294cf
describe
'32800' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOU' 'sip-files00045thm.jpg'
65d9d0029ce6160e4cd6e7d8935064e2
a42e3da263bb0e537b9ce3ead8d41e1a98379b05
describe
'287084' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOV' 'sip-files00046.jp2'
ff204a7d5dbe726818189824a608be7b
6275afc1a85f46d7c2f5fcf355f0a566f991750d
describe
'180185' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOW' 'sip-files00046.jpg'
911f26e16a648eeaa5a1397c93bb2c73
eb67c25b1caf26b911746b2dd159983f5c38cda4
describe
'36266' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOX' 'sip-files00046.pro'
6c3b7b836e4b744857b2d10908b9600b
92f971013356358705567e8f5da1a4b901891314
describe
'70655' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOY' 'sip-files00046.QC.jpg'
20dad736414e4a68d1251e4abfc02a00
48a172181564af25975fb69818c76fff00caed36
describe
'2320044' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKOZ' 'sip-files00046.tif'
64e6d6a71607b96daf2ed91825390445
8ae180dccf2b2da7d8d8f3e36e0cef2723241421
describe
'1432' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPA' 'sip-files00046.txt'
870fccacc62fd9b9492cb3ecb5d2ef75
64cc65545e71257a8a5784483c090a6d9912bb4b
describe
'33255' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPB' 'sip-files00046thm.jpg'
5e1133425664c187fa718083e4ce5755
83fccdc65619067469cd4259b6020c51dd3e9d1a
describe
'287193' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPC' 'sip-files00047.jp2'
7fe323e474b052d1c16e2e1a61bfb0ba
683262c3b087f6323b8538e86b5128da87aaf9f3
'2011-10-12T22:08:48-04:00'
describe
'187617' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPD' 'sip-files00047.jpg'
037c88c3f36ef8345df9a539ba359147
f15ccc424c171acc08ed5786d758a82461de6287
describe
'36652' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPE' 'sip-files00047.pro'
12507001495f532be36d9dc7aa23c440
727acf8eac81cb68d96276d165fc19679f04bd0a
describe
'72597' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPF' 'sip-files00047.QC.jpg'
154dc11efafdbad3a19fce9634995e82
cf08cea9c4a48876ff1cbabd452fd5660b36200a
describe
'2320008' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPG' 'sip-files00047.tif'
4ad38fac9b4393e83b36484d550108a8
f87b10007027e45542b2caea36f37c94fcfafdee
describe
'1523' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPH' 'sip-files00047.txt'
2f08c90a58922e101c15f1666f0ba25e
c12b3b2b8c06cd0e246316e4de8f3dbcde801434
describe
'33674' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPI' 'sip-files00047thm.jpg'
5ebf47adceee17f1bd01def8190df56a
849c61bb7a6ca71a669aae0632749cf4199d4c90
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPJ' 'sip-files00048.jp2'
c149e8c75f0dbaf4085c89d9258dfbc9
98ca7175d2968a16cac4eb98a264856fdb9ca366
describe
'178286' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPK' 'sip-files00048.jpg'
f18583f94ac8400b7a248c1a44607303
36c76b19935536d4a9f3b84ec7e05d410ec5d570
describe
'36068' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPL' 'sip-files00048.pro'
b72a98747d1a8943d59063fa85802607
bc01340ed648836df9a070eab74050af4f193c1d
describe
'69660' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPM' 'sip-files00048.QC.jpg'
b3a2ff8fef74486a313e36fd8f52d592
f78d2a9256295175c6e63b8591eb4420870dd808
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPN' 'sip-files00048.tif'
145a6d3e4cb92688534c780271d6009a
f7825413ccd4a7dfa633977f9ee53074fa9cde38
describe
'1441' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPO' 'sip-files00048.txt'
a2c8c9d21d0a54006c0ce9815ba85cc7
7229e4343ceaf0193e4c2c0d7805c6e0a0d1d409
describe
'32914' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPP' 'sip-files00048thm.jpg'
5f19db257e81bdaad2b63b5d00c1bbfb
7d09d4b9db8261d47cf9dd0c716f4f50d694db30
describe
'287195' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPQ' 'sip-files00049.jp2'
4cd099b389aab4cd0ae711d739c2ac5c
9b45acf08438c8e9e84af2d2d733d8b2675cf209
'2011-10-12T22:09:40-04:00'
describe
'181382' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPR' 'sip-files00049.jpg'
423b66798c89c4799638263079881650
a26916fc9e18cd7c08af6c5623fb2eb0e7324b6d
describe
'34874' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPS' 'sip-files00049.pro'
e294960547ead64bf2fa6a928a3d16d8
e901fbcf5025bdd658fab81ac12fac224c73d779
describe
'70827' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPT' 'sip-files00049.QC.jpg'
89987f04c9a0228fe5c590d83be0ca14
562cbcac0c9712c9ce26f67b89b353423ba2b089
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPU' 'sip-files00049.tif'
5b53c31769c8b1728b067cc0f175425a
b38196f3858cc195ddc552c0f4a2edd850c4886c
'2011-10-12T22:09:12-04:00'
describe
'1478' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPV' 'sip-files00049.txt'
f2947ee6f38dfebaa62764ab1ba44eda
307e2033815c237e51e9b8d8eaaa9aa9b93fb596
describe
'32995' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPW' 'sip-files00049thm.jpg'
9ae905d51c055c93789f1b86fff504f1
0200d7c3e705c04eb39d51fa53d52823d8048704
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPX' 'sip-files00050.jp2'
b1fc58b0bda94c82ab0b9cfdb2192a7d
58cc7f256c871a946bc3f9411998181fd5f58395
describe
'179770' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPY' 'sip-files00050.jpg'
9dce4d25f43c303036671197ca88ab2d
20e4d3af314df77bb3294901c5e185724a53d3b0
describe
'36199' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKPZ' 'sip-files00050.pro'
910047f6d83ff896fd8acddea0e020b1
62186d56c0780ba02ac8054f8412224f61723fc6
describe
'70546' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQA' 'sip-files00050.QC.jpg'
f221940407426623ba62e61a07085c52
17e1e461cce1aaa2edc0af4201f5e7d34d0c522f
'2011-10-12T22:09:22-04:00'
describe
'2319712' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQB' 'sip-files00050.tif'
601823de1cc50278cb86f352933c2883
7610af5298dfa38f924c9d5cec29a886df5ae2eb
describe
'1430' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQC' 'sip-files00050.txt'
8d973d7c067fab5e06e4c17d3c390337
298207ddc95c037f5fb16b80af1e8cde541798b9
describe
'32932' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQD' 'sip-files00050thm.jpg'
79688cbf2785ad2f1992d440c0972464
c49a1fdb5f292d4d02344b830423e66d7ecb766a
describe
'287268' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQE' 'sip-files00051.jp2'
bce3bac0df263587b6aa5b1303e6e41a
0835493b2c01d5efa2ecf101bdb1751c533d2df5
describe
'156503' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQF' 'sip-files00051.jpg'
e1df757c81c23f6ea82371ed28de2df0
4aae2e05667214b8961978ca820f94985d3d401d
describe
'28215' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQG' 'sip-files00051.pro'
b91adaf70d67034570f1182c0e68824f
b9982cda08c2f43a60c1cf001ce8557bd3ad080f
describe
'62571' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQH' 'sip-files00051.QC.jpg'
1b200a60bef15edd8231b34113f92019
5610cfe74e625315107a22815cb921140c374869
describe
'2319160' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQI' 'sip-files00051.tif'
cb3fa2cd14f7e9baca034b4e173c50b4
e0350f94433a39f4242652571cf2b1319f5d7761
describe
'1208' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQJ' 'sip-files00051.txt'
58f401b4ec9821783d3e6392e802e26f
e9c602f09786d5da67ef0deab8ee954e8887a7fe
describe
'30945' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQK' 'sip-files00051thm.jpg'
aabe15d0c6b912d9ae801ddfd6008955
c8c89f09e0f0c092f7e1e40b5eabb180214ba616
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQL' 'sip-files00052.jp2'
b71ee592cf2ea695b494906a656d827f
0e8566fa50b88087df2a15a97fd26d61aa9c79b1
describe
'178572' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQM' 'sip-files00052.jpg'
e1df594de037474ec214239b4b005085
4ba1e9068724c7ee8054cd7bf7bcb2d4e50dd322
describe
'35913' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQN' 'sip-files00052.pro'
be352cb29ef34b257df3056e66fd75db
0c2ae3fc7a4438def3471b1f8fcd11df1dffa932
describe
'70134' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQO' 'sip-files00052.QC.jpg'
bd08dfa4f540290f961baf29b0e13b66
4d082474276f08d12b4aa52b8102cf4a15080583
describe
'2319792' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQP' 'sip-files00052.tif'
2fa7ea301c89d3959a10456ec813c9fd
55efc9a66b7c489088ecb6fb6e4d7bbe0c199947
describe
'1442' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQQ' 'sip-files00052.txt'
b1f57640c0fc5bbc36a9c5aac97310e8
9722f10f235a3ed01369394c856d83087d8e2dde
describe
'32780' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQR' 'sip-files00052thm.jpg'
e1969d266c8c6148a19535b3a9c3a216
7f1828ed887f354db8dca70dd88d3bca24baf9e1
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQS' 'sip-files00053.jp2'
76e3d89161debfd08f9ae82eb7f4d386
2a460b41a818d4ed4f675d003de72104f1fb34d3
describe
'171263' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQT' 'sip-files00053.jpg'
9e6276284073c178b67beaeb73585b42
1f1544e16da316994b14e957546b680842558357
describe
'34500' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQU' 'sip-files00053.pro'
46322712db8357a9930246c23952a4bc
acc84b15c0082b261043e3f7624109be524b3411
describe
'68201' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQV' 'sip-files00053.QC.jpg'
97c543d250b0ee5ca9635128241859cd
e61179c44dd660aaa37dc1b08cfea0ccbcb034a9
describe
'2319800' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQW' 'sip-files00053.tif'
b118b6eed243338a20df051b8f2a330b
fac7f350d541733d71deb737422d2c3e3ee5d84e
describe
'1424' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQX' 'sip-files00053.txt'
1f5a3ce2d0cb05cfbbd0aa78584d76ff
2ea7e82c6522481f851b892988c7dc3654081716
describe
'32636' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQY' 'sip-files00053thm.jpg'
d95a9a12d6ba58e2e4210958ac607158
0fe78618628d9064ac2a30bbf33acacf6eca24dd
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKQZ' 'sip-files00054.jp2'
8017250643eff8be6c52eb34844457ca
bdfdb25af70bfda2989ac5c203287c317934db59
describe
'176314' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRA' 'sip-files00054.jpg'
36d73fbc0a27a25b8becfbaebc730551
2e14bc44a417ae044a9fb057730904ab2fcb7ad5
describe
'34192' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRB' 'sip-files00054.pro'
02f43d329e4553e091de1b18957e3306
c9134edce9806f93e01d30b1f23cb12b85ac9c6d
'2011-10-12T22:09:59-04:00'
describe
'69841' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRC' 'sip-files00054.QC.jpg'
529167e14cd0a4482efab4b43236afd5
2c9f22deb517b93885352bbf2b295196aceb6427
describe
'2319724' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRD' 'sip-files00054.tif'
89a24b5ee29c182fd555bf6985ec1e69
9161356568dd3faec1227c0b42eda1ba1e5a8bee
'2011-10-12T22:09:18-04:00'
describe
'1418' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRE' 'sip-files00054.txt'
ad7655f590600e4c44dc4202f9d385dd
e97a03652ab2dc248b75e5d262cbc797973af8fb
'2011-10-12T22:09:38-04:00'
describe
'32699' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRF' 'sip-files00054thm.jpg'
b39e211959c3503791968699575a4cf3
eb7ff0ad0e7898372059b6f701c1f5a7ff30c7bc
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRG' 'sip-files00055.jp2'
753cf769e1d8dbac7f7d81d9b8b72cbc
86cc1b8551fa8b686ad01c591e48447ec8693a17
'2011-10-12T22:10:27-04:00'
describe
'177978' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRH' 'sip-files00055.jpg'
86c21077f2bcc4a8351c9b7dbefa1664
4d681b763001c3354928f53ae692fdfe1d26687d
describe
'35006' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRI' 'sip-files00055.pro'
25d6e06e9c1f1f0273323ba404001b3f
542717a15ea3d0b45112a26d7c41f852983e957e
describe
'70372' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRJ' 'sip-files00055.QC.jpg'
734b1dce943588ae0c5ad85bade368f1
5a52a72cfd3e03190433f56d4db84fac3e09aed2
describe
'2319748' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRK' 'sip-files00055.tif'
7b3f6f91dfc1819be772b86d8bc233dc
c94a63165818cd289b29087480c5ccb594533851
describe
'1479' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRL' 'sip-files00055.txt'
b07017fec5685241fe520c25bc208a88
2cda9191ee91bec5bf786243f2ab5bf88d4d62a0
describe
'33178' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRM' 'sip-files00055thm.jpg'
46224e5931a47f8516a19830bd4edebf
c8c88ab37a5fdd2ef814e284e24fd476766d55a4
describe
'287232' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRN' 'sip-files00056.jp2'
2b0e9eb87a2e60dce8ad5ae538d3da5d
9d4574a2f914fa87fcbbd5d98cd0abd414b93775
describe
'178034' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRO' 'sip-files00056.jpg'
e6f15ddf243c08e32c7a267122f2d025
7e44fc4be3b2eb2eb26dee471193a4026f3fd48a
describe
'35543' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRP' 'sip-files00056.pro'
5e00473a809dc67393cd89fc35015752
41557789689acd2e025cc1586f0dbf34df270dc7
describe
'69673' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRQ' 'sip-files00056.QC.jpg'
868b7245bf82e39fe5516b6e5352788f
8a387ee07ae704bd46bce4b34fc47ea4044d2c8a
describe
'2319604' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRR' 'sip-files00056.tif'
bb4b15da4eb8631092d67131a0e9a508
69ff4ee504652e7e44316d3605d140447f88deee
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRS' 'sip-files00056.txt'
49e3abd6eb335484c0604662b4d2365f
b1244188ccd33bf632b52938e998c846b512be3c
'2011-10-12T22:09:31-04:00'
describe
'32822' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRT' 'sip-files00056thm.jpg'
044ab10284169fbb55525209bca57353
3bcea0d1943c99f753112dfc2ff3a046eaa04a5b
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRU' 'sip-files00057.jp2'
d6f5e29d304cf4eabeac8c1e67204e8d
82a666e34da48132b48f39b05d0ea80b9963d026
describe
'163940' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRV' 'sip-files00057.jpg'
0333b08465a3318370dd0a13ce51b1bd
2cff64b34fbc6fe32fd13ef7a3d0b204c42bd22e
describe
'31240' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRW' 'sip-files00057.pro'
3ce8a1ceaee52032800beebf9112272f
0c8c2ea4819cc4b7ad4ec117d0f0818db700a869
describe
'64995' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRX' 'sip-files00057.QC.jpg'
c8f7a3ad7fb8c1627a0489dae670169e
46389542dcd63b24b654cb3071652e653e33fd7e
describe
'2319452' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRY' 'sip-files00057.tif'
e69b0adb5a3c17f00c1d879ca8a2fc62
9babbb5b8c5d153b5a33e927f24368366bd1059e
describe
'1307' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKRZ' 'sip-files00057.txt'
ccd503ea32a7ae6ea97f3b3e2831909d
ebc98846cf9646b2d4e17f21459f9a7072716a83
describe
'32002' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSA' 'sip-files00057thm.jpg'
fa70a4fd7e435d60333825b774c8bbea
70568e1ffce7f8034c513b2440ce36b2052e787a
describe
'287230' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSB' 'sip-files00058.jp2'
38e897b879dad51096aa93a98cc9046e
8ff346d27f3969125c32944dc0b8cd7eef740984
describe
'165878' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSC' 'sip-files00058.jpg'
3aaf05f0b1410fe22c3edbaff4abddd8
982bc145ad20156bd6928457c5e6da05227b1b4a
describe
'32529' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSD' 'sip-files00058.pro'
28fce6c962f4c483d618e2b73b1886a8
a7dc9a050048d30a12dbfefad6409daf2fb05200
describe
'65928' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSE' 'sip-files00058.QC.jpg'
0b771c6c4b2f9322a4761ac5da7199c6
3f84b39b2fef831e2d45e3e9150f0571770556d1
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSF' 'sip-files00058.tif'
24720ff41e224a8eaff1eab8dedda76f
c89f3df0cd92f0fc3d55af9210fbd7cf65ae1ba8
describe
'1311' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSG' 'sip-files00058.txt'
81406aca7abf100913a62d65d0bc22c9
d765b91034a3cbe972308b87889cd6617d7e1505
describe
'31861' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSH' 'sip-files00058thm.jpg'
4bb1df7c426605d0e8cfda2e13c653bc
2b3bdb789c3855aebb61050d49efec5c813746c4
describe
'287235' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSI' 'sip-files00059.jp2'
e0dbd2d2cc7324b551841abae9be2680
bc389c6ae053b606972b404ecef15ae1254f5d48
describe
'183412' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSJ' 'sip-files00059.jpg'
a7be595ffc6dade8225c1b6ddc0bf465
2a82b972de43b48821390f9bf1239068c43d7e9e
describe
'37459' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSK' 'sip-files00059.pro'
b5e17e65a7721bd60abca9f9abec06fb
c7b927bd88c9643f61fd2051a884027386802b41
describe
'72292' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSL' 'sip-files00059.QC.jpg'
7b644e857f9a4fccf27858a7f031d329
052643a4a0ccccb69a0c41ec339762652e514ea4
describe
'2319928' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSM' 'sip-files00059.tif'
18a629a014c0598fa2787f9308c2f7e0
bdccc7c1edd268546d447dc972fa814a51a1134f
describe
'1493' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSN' 'sip-files00059.txt'
b13d48ab90f82054cced68706495f24c
0819bdb445a610e2e4c5b53fa1594948d0c9b2c2
describe
'33283' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSO' 'sip-files00059thm.jpg'
3867b8b073ca43dede4bfd2eb7390155
23cf8620f5989001646d95e225a5db90893ac6a2
describe
'287226' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSP' 'sip-files00060.jp2'
b7b87dd183959226743dccbcbb12a608
48676c2e563c99d3331c37dfed47dc0e84265a44
describe
'186991' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSQ' 'sip-files00060.jpg'
9256ff2855442c077d550fc120dfa64f
4736f01e7d3241862b514dc6fc5fc937aaf2065d
describe
'38269' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSR' 'sip-files00060.pro'
b25c1bc149112e35e937621c214abac2
8113c30e0c72689d809c02945d3b68920028b2e6
describe
'72414' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSS' 'sip-files00060.QC.jpg'
57f028542acbd5c9901648dd38b784dc
fc1646058dea29aaa81ccd372d320222679517e7
describe
'2319960' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKST' 'sip-files00060.tif'
50b8f26b438730b191692ae9356732ff
800aaa459a44d4a5d42da2a167087300ab1ec098
describe
'1511' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSU' 'sip-files00060.txt'
0746591b59cfd7083ca23e8cebfdf1d6
2d00ac545b33306e6c3eae68ff2743be66971a41
describe
'33328' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSV' 'sip-files00060thm.jpg'
4e8613a852136cbbd942fd54e051ff51
f0b03d87bb2daf3b4c480303c2a14e7998960e04
describe
'287167' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSW' 'sip-files00061.jp2'
8c33e4ee4f76efbdda82e9aeceb214be
e234e280b62d59b4ed1d59f2d1b4c5cc2af53564
describe
'186873' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSX' 'sip-files00061.jpg'
e8a7b12efbbd1a8d5664101f39eefbfa
9053baa3186859bd18206e516c562d8930bcf6e3
'2011-10-12T22:09:44-04:00'
describe
'38296' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSY' 'sip-files00061.pro'
7dcaa0a3ebef01c053c339af458f677a
139d8fd9bba965b502bf72c84c7ed6d83e2a2a4f
describe
'72817' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKSZ' 'sip-files00061.QC.jpg'
5357a08e5c9b5ee066c6d1fb3b31c914
30d4afea255765330d1f90648c1ffd9ab0dc9113
describe
'2319840' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTA' 'sip-files00061.tif'
7e9d300e0a855decb73e379abb2b9bf1
48dd443145ac122a437da04c63e689dae1b05624
describe
'1516' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTB' 'sip-files00061.txt'
f0931fa69cbe9ab61787a5446672c9c4
cff9047c1dd68155a519ae2ae195f66a682d93c1
describe
'33244' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTC' 'sip-files00061thm.jpg'
d057eb857e4ba9be8a4b428822f58fbc
9c8b8856718d60885efc09ac95159f897a91a121
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTD' 'sip-files00062.jp2'
c44b2cc47d640166e0c08be1067c0be6
1b4251e5cdc2d0ab7c42e2813d41b2fa6bb57468
describe
'178682' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTE' 'sip-files00062.jpg'
3c583d7c38d565fb6b69d0c02413fb9d
0de01592a1103da3a03eaee93d42a365021e3331
describe
'36607' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTF' 'sip-files00062.pro'
2977092e68c85715598808a2c3393667
bfe79e1d6db38ed1b16e7f05ce64df4fcad3fbde
describe
'69812' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTG' 'sip-files00062.QC.jpg'
7d2cfa25049139041d061b9a4fedd8a1
0dbfabaa7ed195410b97dd2b9d3e449d7fcc2b69
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTH' 'sip-files00062.tif'
db7b61ffad3e8a78679e8b0b8516e95a
0749bb1c03af20aec8f4b5f9ae9d3963d44aa8b9
describe
'1443' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTI' 'sip-files00062.txt'
0bbab9fd7520370479b9f14f19c20d13
fe097e679d4bd492cef977c64f32c4159132edd3
describe
'33281' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTJ' 'sip-files00062thm.jpg'
7f6ec194274af9aaee46a577398a4f83
6b56e80bfe85da116be46d0fab7e576b25e11bff
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTK' 'sip-files00063.jp2'
eec564fa35325a1a81b891ebf05f1310
13c3c1d1582d5eeea820aa6764f8c8ac834234ff
describe
'177132' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTL' 'sip-files00063.jpg'
e3f6e25830906b96c59d50f90de6c062
527fc1e869db942d30d70c027a2ee964964739f0
describe
'35309' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTM' 'sip-files00063.pro'
8d1f39552f71b54c9073ed6eb5fcea8c
84df6e8f712121b16596cc088e16e1f5af500e83
describe
'71265' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTN' 'sip-files00063.QC.jpg'
8bc89a7f16fbd224a9b0d7cf11bce07a
afa36d5d456f98f02c1ef44132ee8f995e33ffb3
describe
'2319892' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTO' 'sip-files00063.tif'
8a3a1747fe7337ea126cc2021f84f2fb
19c62d71d158e0df4c16789df6e7f8846cde5962
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTP' 'sip-files00063.txt'
c6dd5b33a78cc08afb1f3e9694ec6e98
20d71dbbdd5378fd90fa2d01c8e2ded93625c903
'2011-10-12T22:09:47-04:00'
describe
'32907' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTQ' 'sip-files00063thm.jpg'
2eeff24007bea47cb38b6ee121baae6e
9bb8c52125537e79502eda0291b8b4e4e529b8f2
describe
'287263' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTR' 'sip-files00064.jp2'
b41ce3a654a827d84a41d6b4d097434d
630ce39091d4c8cfcc62eac19c36b16b5aaf4f66
describe
'180394' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTS' 'sip-files00064.jpg'
54029d6dd9dc9e16cfc7e8bc9d55ab24
9fbb9134743437db7a487d8be7afe2317c5cd497
describe
'37568' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTT' 'sip-files00064.pro'
12554ffdbef6daaad5f2dc60926c6f1c
c4e831472e4c10ea904d4e4453e7e8b6700c98af
describe
'70359' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTU' 'sip-files00064.QC.jpg'
be1a9cd57c3700e1ecd47bcd86686757
aee965f718d140880710f0e7b136b998a0db3e96
describe
'2319692' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTV' 'sip-files00064.tif'
a2689aab394b9fce2da6f86e24d97ca9
9e7e393b04678297060a5d1088ab599d8947e18d
describe
'1480' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTW' 'sip-files00064.txt'
ad006eb7d99d42ae02cb7da4e5fd6f29
2f7242a8d48848451480eb06d70780911fcf3a46
describe
'33033' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTX' 'sip-files00064thm.jpg'
6571a0fb626481d2cace489831b4b7d9
65cf9e6c8c34e7b71cba422b19e88fc07a87f4aa
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTY' 'sip-files00065.jp2'
4756ddd2f84044b62c500bc8bbc860ae
791af35ae4e7accac39b4df1a43ae2873a4971e1
describe
'176758' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKTZ' 'sip-files00065.jpg'
5a32bf11b7ee8595e8e7c693c78771c5
6f4e676cbb372b2eba078e3b6626b97821ba5bb2
describe
'36338' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUA' 'sip-files00065.pro'
452bfa3919617e256c60b98f7245f847
406c9d6c8f9a1fc5c0b79d2a9e2e221ca42cd0a0
describe
'70127' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUB' 'sip-files00065.QC.jpg'
e03104da7865c87f6fe21fc955c7f9c9
2f14700381c3e4ffa15c1c1d46359fbcf70693b8
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUC' 'sip-files00065.tif'
8158f74c803f46c758b2f8e8b872a7fa
ac1c22295574a433cd6490459a05f8994a2e406c
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUD' 'sip-files00065.txt'
6d2a61cecc78402c0b8a24a8b779373d
103dc532634ea8ed9cff2058e57e5db28238b185
describe
'32424' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUE' 'sip-files00065thm.jpg'
c9117a4e3a62f64d9c2dab85630ff9fa
370d07577e8f720957d0a49a455094785c9cbb18
describe
'287237' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUF' 'sip-files00066.jp2'
b75a819602f670b5ac7d49a89226a108
d271b83ea67a8ab7ab010620dc48320c63ff1439
describe
'175968' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUG' 'sip-files00066.jpg'
47c242d91044dd006f82ee94323c0921
331664c1509e9e835773ce2b8a4d0affbbf72b6b
describe
'33861' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUH' 'sip-files00066.pro'
af82da8fcd7b586abb607ca432b0d969
5a7b808bebbcf16ebd3c5ce4450d9ada16dfa393
describe
'68933' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUI' 'sip-files00066.QC.jpg'
7f53ba8364c189f2a3583f5caca53025
ebdea7cfa702ea7a6a2b457e9f7c7f6abadf0be9
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUJ' 'sip-files00066.tif'
537914eef838a1c3b6e52530aea54631
c89ad276772e2ed17ab7a418f887c5fdad72df3e
describe
'1391' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUK' 'sip-files00066.txt'
7efed6c634d5280668d49977652ef8ab
bcfd9a6e0a9b4bbb99cf556abcf9235ad21b7cf4
describe
'33087' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUL' 'sip-files00066thm.jpg'
27ff7dea50de3c8188c60fddb60cda0f
512c92d40a249de7998dc8ad69168a082d0431f8
describe
'287170' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUM' 'sip-files00067.jp2'
d2f89456f061105b200b0ce0664420f8
d34d3f9cf004d03faafa571f075cf5e049b3ef29
describe
'175698' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUN' 'sip-files00067.jpg'
586867f0b686404dd5695386edbe90c9
8a068bc4c90c1efb69e530de58da14d8d3adf3c7
describe
'34642' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUO' 'sip-files00067.pro'
7daf9e842b0113849d206f031865961f
335feb92a44571b2fe499052e3e4223ae55bda1f
describe
'69440' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUP' 'sip-files00067.QC.jpg'
24f8415d75b0715940e2409a9c1bd0a1
40309c11910930c046b25694108a77e61765d803
describe
'2319816' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUQ' 'sip-files00067.tif'
f596a97a063013a49ffede5ad6575b48
865419f5070b033edf7865d95b3c7b15b8da726c
describe
'1381' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUR' 'sip-files00067.txt'
f8b0d91ea6057b5b2b1c08b62c4bd622
fbe38665a9df98dc9abf1fd4e1cbb7720b422760
describe
'32854' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUS' 'sip-files00067thm.jpg'
529454732b21e366fff4380d6b710b3b
19a5c3106e1df97ba47657d00102c6428ee8bac1
describe
'287261' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUT' 'sip-files00068.jp2'
3399fc7bd65b8ddfcf20f5164c6f6997
da4113923c84da295c668dea92d4ed4725641ba2
describe
'180213' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUU' 'sip-files00068.jpg'
5f29ccc1ed703e62425179a46cb441fc
60ecc7892418c31421dfa8bb427bfe6c2b000f52
describe
'35449' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUV' 'sip-files00068.pro'
d1895475cdac93d56c133d6204e0531a
b160e6059842f2ef7a3f03c33850085dcdac2a28
describe
'70558' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUW' 'sip-files00068.QC.jpg'
ee2f9d3470255364aefd30bf34bbe844
e2f80b4c531231a1764085a2308c47363afda804
describe
'2319824' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUX' 'sip-files00068.tif'
c1ef4fa7c16c8d36b4ddaae83140fe5f
564d012482e3b089059657e547521ec6bb0dc203
describe
'1450' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUY' 'sip-files00068.txt'
a989408ca8fe6af36293029155e650e8
8e63093aa669f7c20eb8b0f0276135089359dae3
describe
'33014' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKUZ' 'sip-files00068thm.jpg'
812ad7eccc69544cef0f7f87b126154d
1e1ca11dc94ccbea9f1516b09b795a8d042e68c7
describe
'287145' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVA' 'sip-files00069.jp2'
1047f53254db5d8b9d5e89ea73758a16
647b9796edcc40936449b82354dcbbeac2d6859d
describe
'182006' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVB' 'sip-files00069.jpg'
545c144636aa54837046fa1ab6706a71
bc60adf388ad7a308b66fb6975e0760fa614d28f
describe
'37805' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVC' 'sip-files00069.pro'
0d4981c17fc34ec54c5c3890209e4de7
88481217036875e414bde0f28f4daa52e7f4d44b
describe
'71319' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVD' 'sip-files00069.QC.jpg'
3afb84a8588a6dcda12f8fa82517373c
764b46a502583ad1dd85d5557e64721b7da65034
describe
'2319864' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVE' 'sip-files00069.tif'
fd8925d3bdc9eb1b719ae494a562d475
9cdb4387a0b4c0b0c717b2b1078ff91575c5a67d
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVF' 'sip-files00069.txt'
97dce7a85223b3bf25d9e9eb3662a06d
4b143db689ea62d75d55feaa3e6a85616fcaeab3
describe
'32890' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVG' 'sip-files00069thm.jpg'
a8e23a11143d5453ee7fcc2ee7ce88ce
961e541c4883870180245f5656af4a703b293de3
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVH' 'sip-files00070.jp2'
9fcc931eb87af8a6396bbf4dee412c99
c6695c39bc7d99a0871a681cb1eb085acc9ca5eb
describe
'173008' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVI' 'sip-files00070.jpg'
5df35a2b5997556a9a015a38b1708f21
9c8441adc0f9547626bd03b115b9907e900333fc
describe
'33491' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVJ' 'sip-files00070.pro'
8e08358c668f8daf8148725ddf8cab17
0d43fb2eb18a6c9c7c7c00fd0e256456e27b150c
describe
'67573' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVK' 'sip-files00070.QC.jpg'
f68b62bbfc57a9aec2e6439cee54cb64
c9830e9e9bcfc473d45336e0da580f10e6611aa4
describe
'2319764' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVL' 'sip-files00070.tif'
e5f73b157567ab2312275542c1e9fa1c
be9035460364882892d9907e6b0692edc74562c2
describe
'1383' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVM' 'sip-files00070.txt'
9d62470fe1f117ae2eda6682e0ce3096
7592ec2a952068f43f21d0f11b4844a28debabc8
describe
'32769' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVN' 'sip-files00070thm.jpg'
98478a864c1d416c937af21a907a422b
f38a027d5ff853b3126fed03a4e24e610d270ea5
describe
'287162' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVO' 'sip-files00071.jp2'
a35ae380fc22a3232b6f7c4b5f6ddcca
87dbb2de0cf90a6c4b1f7f63094c811d27b7b5d1
describe
'167998' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVP' 'sip-files00071.jpg'
c6b67c444039504b0a3f04f24bc20285
7a808715526c7c2a9074049cce13577bc5c772cf
describe
'33764' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVQ' 'sip-files00071.pro'
fb1942140efc5efb9d7a9f09b925c4e2
b75e2ced05ed56fba7f0a9fbde587a5bb8fcb7b9
describe
'63230' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVR' 'sip-files00071.QC.jpg'
4e07cc93dbb4eade45725154faeeb199
3207d198c97890b604eed18e786788c5896edc04
describe
'2312608' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVS' 'sip-files00071.tif'
092627c84812d9a745681d0ef71f53f4
9b6cab20291097bfebb93363601cdb2e3e8a62c9
describe
'1354' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVT' 'sip-files00071.txt'
9c44ec20ec847443d08b18e49bc0c4a8
ebfdc9260355a7da752cb13e8b553b1707f9b617
describe
'26422' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVU' 'sip-files00071thm.jpg'
3c6611f799cc50fb7937b2380b6c15d8
6be117f38db4bcbb2e1679df7bd0df8460cabd29
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVV' 'sip-files00072.jp2'
b021f7b110b66c839daf52c1730a61a9
4a63a157bd69e756c106ca367e9002269bacef00
describe
'157716' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVW' 'sip-files00072.jpg'
c399a4139569ed34aad487ee2eeb6e2b
23cee7d2fed396e7f1b92f832c45c74de9531dd0
describe
'32723' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVX' 'sip-files00072.pro'
66811b2bc671e1e8035201fca586c6b8
36d5dbf660d49b80143cc72a0d380c7bd990f21a
describe
'58321' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVY' 'sip-files00072.QC.jpg'
c99af134a0c3853a7ba12153facd8cce
d95d7b5fbe98df4e77883322cf6b7189c7e75e91
describe
'2311744' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKVZ' 'sip-files00072.tif'
1913f14276856341a1496a1311ba07bf
d204173372016479c698157bc978745215b8a5e2
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWA' 'sip-files00072.txt'
084f8d7a24dc0e878ac8d58035d0cc6f
2c8a4cebfc91eea20c914841849e2d2e7d8605a6
describe
'24542' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWB' 'sip-files00072thm.jpg'
ac79f8bef6245745f51fd1f89415bcb2
d3a17bb710ddf2e71b8048db5388764d4a056977
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWC' 'sip-files00073.jp2'
5eefd672b197510d2edf5c52faaf980b
2c0509d1b7b610e3c1222af97a76784a70b386ef
describe
'143978' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWD' 'sip-files00073.jpg'
889fed0c897f60b7bb272b6ea3589490
5d0c2ceac0a6ce48a44244479b73cf0c3f823628
describe
'26526' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWE' 'sip-files00073.pro'
234ab29ec6a7c575fc4dd957382b8fb8
89b35dcc0f1a056df9d804aef8656d1377d459f7
describe
'58945' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWF' 'sip-files00073.QC.jpg'
92e183e0e6bd98e7378b5ecf835f8bcd
014fdbe32ef1e5214fcf9960d8914c5afbd97b2e
describe
'2319232' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWG' 'sip-files00073.tif'
ed50bacff2b6257c933116f1fabf29e1
01c2f7c661d36c9144664bfb54231b4ba6f1a165
describe
'1110' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWH' 'sip-files00073.txt'
c422c8f074b93516940f364c5905d652
523f8a6fd0612dc557c456326d0f0b41a38a01c7
describe
'31220' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWI' 'sip-files00073thm.jpg'
32c2feb1328119a90b5bd63ba29747e7
5e1ef28fd18b4444ad53943df848b5edb40cb90a
describe
'287223' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWJ' 'sip-files00074.jp2'
04eefdb59dffa248368686605c5cf17e
e2bfe73909ca9d6ca4b003a9307948f263a3b120
describe
'164181' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWK' 'sip-files00074.jpg'
b26be09f822db817d1327f0a8b66b078
a13b80f2d7af1886ae041a0c507e5d2d06a534c4
describe
'31505' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWL' 'sip-files00074.pro'
df43cf4956a4762e0767a73d1466ee29
4b51111071e1d110b574714e5219fc3964de19e1
describe
'66301' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWM' 'sip-files00074.QC.jpg'
d578b4c58bfbf58c74ba34331d9ab16e
5980793db589bfc6abf085d2dbd0740113102047
describe
'2319820' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWN' 'sip-files00074.tif'
0811da4cfa24bfe9ae70b69c0d1ed227
31971b473cbdf054c11fc5ce1af1d9eff0b97539
describe
'1274' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWO' 'sip-files00074.txt'
666b7ea7278d6b16afc31bc9bb2fa377
642419d5fda3ffd9f03c91ece6ec8112bb5de6bd
describe
'32726' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWP' 'sip-files00074thm.jpg'
e781fcde2557b5e616af3fccdfd3d9b8
e04daddfca1eefe37e54eb03989323a2bff461e3
describe
'287236' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWQ' 'sip-files00075.jp2'
bdc28f25841c7dd422bbd10d567fb828
6ec591bfca0929fb7d3a358a361af38b349c5af9
describe
'164492' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWR' 'sip-files00075.jpg'
fb5b0d7b94146e45ea384a9d1c50c750
c3062901cbfcbf7cb16571654e94f1aa1a68990b
describe
'30759' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWS' 'sip-files00075.pro'
387c6ed0f3b6b0e0753cbbea4009a6d4
d6ffbf42a2b79a92d4cb14aeaec43cec690169da
describe
'66710' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWT' 'sip-files00075.QC.jpg'
0030df659574acd8a0c097f2ad3b96c7
06d92a5b3684e19847d221e08cb2a1113ee2c51c
describe
'2319660' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWU' 'sip-files00075.tif'
a8541bb94f1788235d994ba70c05e993
7e9f2f724b9c4e2359cd802ea655f160e34fab2f
describe
'1317' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWV' 'sip-files00075.txt'
95156cc86ad52950559a444553418f91
e5c64f48b9fac1410da91465f864344ee7eb74cf
describe
'32401' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWW' 'sip-files00075thm.jpg'
a8dda4962f7700d6089108b07189d86c
ca1b1d62c3bf42172bf5064afa01ddef2a244e11
describe
'287250' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWX' 'sip-files00076.jp2'
26e03143b7402076aecbd272be52648e
e232edf28bf7bfa597f6c33126079f3bfd481f90
describe
'158500' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWY' 'sip-files00076.jpg'
352955ba278a152ecf52933771d486fa
8d9e443bc8670e7caf0847a91361ca72777c44e4
describe
'29838' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKWZ' 'sip-files00076.pro'
0f6a77c641c1d7627923368300e2f9f8
5044c9b2dc0dca6af36d4a4904f944cbf5adf57f
describe
'63054' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXA' 'sip-files00076.QC.jpg'
0bd2c65843030c66c813a1c9ea6c0a16
599d6262ca765b33f4a05d241954eaac27bab068
describe
'2319468' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXB' 'sip-files00076.tif'
4843536e910b74b5bc8efeee8614994a
576d10b139841983992eb907ffa16f152279536e
describe
'1262' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXC' 'sip-files00076.txt'
838d76ce82ae9f68de362cdb757f6bcf
1f9e8e945ecc981b39f0a83204eaa0522eba8e54
describe
'31884' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXD' 'sip-files00076thm.jpg'
8bb220db6305749a2baa22f68283a0a8
8b430f6a12c30e4ea107908212b3cd56582d5d0c
describe
'287186' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXE' 'sip-files00077.jp2'
e0afbf55ba4c1a93e15d569f371374cc
21ca588663cac44649fe3cb7f5d98361d73b09fa
describe
'161532' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXF' 'sip-files00077.jpg'
00c98be1ccadae8c72d8f8c99c9ec08a
4a0ad5894ff70ef208c6282a6c5efd9de8f6eada
describe
'31703' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXG' 'sip-files00077.pro'
e8f89ed511af7f4448531771e85728ee
2767c23743505728d7cb447bcdd880be05e18de2
describe
'64325' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXH' 'sip-files00077.QC.jpg'
1b7e4fd8892dc95d5973d26de8a8485e
2361d90f78ae8ccaf9372f95a5e74d7723717da2
'2011-10-12T22:09:49-04:00'
describe
'2319460' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXI' 'sip-files00077.tif'
d10042b5ae4c208af80925ce005ef015
be758052df01cbc9afe519b699fc0103bb61bf8b
describe
'1269' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXJ' 'sip-files00077.txt'
dab7d861e52a6a3e99817dcdba0189ba
5494fa5a38238890c3178c3114559a00c69d5d16
describe
'31967' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXK' 'sip-files00077thm.jpg'
9ef2185641a017508807fd99fe56caf9
5064f79a10dbfc56d2e8f66231188a8a386659ec
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXL' 'sip-files00078.jp2'
e236ef5c3e68620249becb0c89373498
55fe5d6116e522f8f751056e8f7a66346bc54d7a
describe
'165591' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXM' 'sip-files00078.jpg'
f7183e41ce9de720f9fde5b7304e5407
167b3e2debc5b005af2ee0b06751769df6473b79
describe
'31574' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXN' 'sip-files00078.pro'
5c15d108fa76f7a4248320baf9a2d7d6
ae767deb000b2db29882ab6fbed230e5e46d78dd
describe
'66454' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXO' 'sip-files00078.QC.jpg'
ca7bb5fee8e931bfd5fc7c73df67e6c1
b116a84661b416265c5683427ec944d70d96b641
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXP' 'sip-files00078.tif'
833b486e080187f91f938a3a43a06739
38f8d2afa58ab6f3854d12a34e1eb61d8b973d9e
describe
'1316' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXQ' 'sip-files00078.txt'
1b7c4e5db19dbdeda2975be2ddd1da3f
deeeac9b4da202ab69e455df74aeb881df1c0253
describe
'32675' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXR' 'sip-files00078thm.jpg'
c438cbda367f856bb21feef5b600273a
dafa44d049e2dd215fbf75238edcd618b2d5f768
describe
'287197' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXS' 'sip-files00079.jp2'
ab2bacd0217a9fa501c211e0d8f050a9
392d10e97cb2ce5d41ae1682abf571c4bdce4bfa
describe
'158272' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXT' 'sip-files00079.jpg'
17d37bdb857c4629b7c439ea6596c56b
1d4154aefc650bdabfcbf27a2562f1b8ec4ded00
describe
'28437' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXU' 'sip-files00079.pro'
50597c4fa8acd7dac4cdb5ee40ca6cc3
b348b4643fc74c193a9bdd7bb1b0dcf158f5564b
describe
'63345' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXV' 'sip-files00079.QC.jpg'
87fa4113dc42524852668ffb8dc41fe5
a4dd59220006ebaff3157dcd0f303c37f5351d94
describe
'2319256' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXW' 'sip-files00079.tif'
09e86bc5b445d60f6fd95db76e257894
4e2664348b4b630ec34485c8978e2571dec1a399
describe
'1218' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXX' 'sip-files00079.txt'
7392a2d2fc22ff8c5e55f73b9469586f
16c4e200d4295228e73f1dc65e1e3c0fa7d6bf30
describe
'31390' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXY' 'sip-files00079thm.jpg'
33c51b6d07a5736697401508806447b7
417431315db8d3503d6a3cf8e0c36dfa4c2be349
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKXZ' 'sip-files00080.jp2'
09d93cbaa692ae4f7819c5023f1bfb4f
547a4ddd64af460339cd28920ad837e5366ef8b6
describe
'185238' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYA' 'sip-files00080.jpg'
de6c1e69162f879e7d0a08207f1b375c
6ba17467010356f42d78a9a6852c342dc4e8b018
describe
'36733' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYB' 'sip-files00080.pro'
d77b4ea092baa5d47645610c46f9af87
04fbe3d6e745a16b1e41f2c18999937353ff7ecd
describe
'71775' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYC' 'sip-files00080.QC.jpg'
d681da33a50dedf3ecc982521c1b1cf2
a649525857a541dd174fc32c7d9a61fb0251e347
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYD' 'sip-files00080.tif'
1ec2c4f4890a5d48cf7f5fd3229435c0
0183802766562e56bf7dcdf64c19a94c2f68d535
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYE' 'sip-files00080.txt'
329163e89465db5db8a122b29a102bc6
af6f9b0b580ed2715751ca6947da27f009a5ad2b
describe
'32953' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYF' 'sip-files00080thm.jpg'
3ea48284d01cdce7c4cc5433f0f6f06b
b5894cc7ed1cae75b67427e4b79ccbf883edbdc6
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYG' 'sip-files00081.jp2'
7bd1c13cb5dc6998a61b4c0139462e65
c21a4f2aa1ea291e13094a3ae9e9df404e8d4a4e
describe
'183170' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYH' 'sip-files00081.jpg'
c33991ec098703218355250c99b93b28
0eff2701acee3d70d58088fcdc4efc4c178057c4
describe
'37034' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYI' 'sip-files00081.pro'
ddedf071813502b5fcd30951d4cff2c3
f6622c4392a660ba3874f174cb7c6aa785d9fd2d
describe
'70973' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYJ' 'sip-files00081.QC.jpg'
993827c2396cd1a4f8981b41ecbe6cc0
a7c2abc46080a5f827cc8d50250217e81fd3ab0b
describe
'2319632' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYK' 'sip-files00081.tif'
9058bbea19cae52520317c6cad937a36
e4aa2879ff46a05cb7e50c89b1fb4dba281e1fb4
describe
'1469' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYL' 'sip-files00081.txt'
eee6d485fb09abbd843ea16eda4e7ce9
9f2d455d80928853d64a34434b0dad3dbeba2de6
describe
'32703' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYM' 'sip-files00081thm.jpg'
49208afe1da5b611c07a578e1a44a59d
286506b2f16f9a165aea2fae50a06a32aaa9ecf5
describe
'287256' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYN' 'sip-files00082.jp2'
0130886f0e6c09601514c10108341b9d
0bb440339f973095e2a0410d1985ba105fcd723b
describe
'172337' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYO' 'sip-files00082.jpg'
e6114d90875f777825e5a5988439ad84
e4529f7c9952e66af0f7635d550d90bd5019ccb2
describe
'32441' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYP' 'sip-files00082.pro'
f14a9bffdc46f60e4cf6f1a4041f7bda
771d29c7009597eb0dc60c008719de17bb7c8abd
describe
'68732' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYQ' 'sip-files00082.QC.jpg'
2de8347c3a209bb6c153a55ecd6e7343
3dc470e9b9567132084be3c2052238b0d55fee39
describe
'2319952' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYR' 'sip-files00082.tif'
8b7525c95e3cd11b0f84f729aa3f047b
84b87a4dfe90b3e4c0281aa46ad60f79c6e77ccc
describe
'1332' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYS' 'sip-files00082.txt'
bba7cf59a871a6843e67809dc78a194c
973fc1cff1343d46b19c6dc3e4636125db3016eb
describe
'33013' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYT' 'sip-files00082thm.jpg'
14e3944a255f6dbfbb5e86e0d12abc9b
5375d52ec6a2d3316e618367373512c406279ddc
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYU' 'sip-files00083.jp2'
ece5fc71b189a4698ae7533951e2fe90
e03e8e4c5b57833970351205be7a7bba5981228e
describe
'182365' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYV' 'sip-files00083.jpg'
09b5f874b2351dd30d96c87e0aa8f3d4
eae496dec14f5f338d2e313ada5891c50db46fe5
describe
'36115' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYW' 'sip-files00083.pro'
72975477a68b44c5c78c4f4481742517
39007f4ca102669e928ab712f912b59f23e39477
describe
'71334' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYX' 'sip-files00083.QC.jpg'
19fff1e39bfcac52d388b1586f8819d7
56aabfae5eb8aba15c81a6d0af7ce8eb570fbfe4
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYY' 'sip-files00083.tif'
206bed8f7d7fd4edf4b19e5d0ab079fd
1bf5b573f9d40a72a89ff9507e622828d130e134
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKYZ' 'sip-files00083.txt'
7df5e9117913b7cc920f8ec88e87e127
cb0d6922116a95f24ea41cd25548da46fb9db106
describe
'32933' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZA' 'sip-files00083thm.jpg'
864919d5f0682a2fc371c39214f5031f
fbd950345174fbf66c9aa6ae239766a432a55d5f
describe
'287210' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZB' 'sip-files00084.jp2'
a8ae3d5664890bb8b499682092618529
f1879d77381dae2a823cb1a317d15c819c222a19
describe
'172881' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZC' 'sip-files00084.jpg'
e11688b37f5513723cf0fd70efbf13f7
79e247093bad939ca94f54594c447f84841ee6e7
describe
'34591' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZD' 'sip-files00084.pro'
fa9cb0d3138e741d2dff6285eacbb340
2350c61f723af56867388d378647f12fd452d887
describe
'68286' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZE' 'sip-files00084.QC.jpg'
2d96b9eaf2115e917c2d259c484988b0
b86adf3b5acb09221ab8bc93dcc4a420aa6d13b8
describe
'2319456' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZF' 'sip-files00084.tif'
66f83ad71a8f6bb85264cabb662f089d
5faa69a1ea1fcdb454afbd9defaf4f351e530086
describe
'1428' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZG' 'sip-files00084.txt'
ed7112677d522fe3c678949e9d553649
44d1c97443cc7357bc5ef42f058439a36e7d9d78
describe
'32309' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZH' 'sip-files00084thm.jpg'
b04a1c727091db4a60d9ba402851d335
e7879124f60e4ad7c37c1ecb0960d8edab5ccd2e
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZI' 'sip-files00085.jp2'
063013fda11ad3420213f24ab4314fa3
652071d137814bf0bf60138f99a52d466283f6ba
describe
'174536' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZJ' 'sip-files00085.jpg'
053acf13c01805caaed6fa780a58feb2
c3e25cf4cfbf03604159c4a5ecc670a003158369
describe
'35251' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZK' 'sip-files00085.pro'
edd4da3edcca6abf9ee45de4417f6ba3
e930dc3cfa05e25611073a586aabaf4e181b24c0
describe
'68469' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZL' 'sip-files00085.QC.jpg'
0e7fd68e61d2c312cc6ec8bd395fc501
e496c6a9e1d0e0a08fe0f78dfa937f7723da3e76
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZM' 'sip-files00085.tif'
121b9d401fee697e35abd829d83aeeb2
9d47c30483514ab13eddb31faeebf602be1a5fb0
describe
'1436' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZN' 'sip-files00085.txt'
5b58ca64ba4581b0d6bbc47f66589fd4
bba14bda041412ba7db312cafd5f77400f93bfab
describe
'32548' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZO' 'sip-files00085thm.jpg'
813edd3c0d495894ae8754de9c38a324
85c47d56261b467934eb3623e5c4a5e7a011df0c
describe
'287239' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZP' 'sip-files00086.jp2'
423575e261eb33980a3995da2d0bc72b
0ddd63640c7c435ef36f8b486aa037051d2d349b
describe
'178927' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZQ' 'sip-files00086.jpg'
21e9c74c355ce90a5c1fab9f2fabfd2c
16cb9177c6389a8c72f1c74bcd4282ecd3f489af
describe
'34921' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZR' 'sip-files00086.pro'
2c7d98cb336a7ed3cff06032fabdfced
367ba9d89c602e333fb0b70d00aea6ca36ad373a
describe
'69976' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZS' 'sip-files00086.QC.jpg'
66ba0517f80e3589c21e75afcb07012f
2acd116323836fd2ada9bc5991bd96605a5a12fd
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZT' 'sip-files00086.tif'
b3d9dd935ffd3b4ec8dc02f67b5cdd13
d3b2dfce5b8d8f0fd2c2dce0283953bf052b630e
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZU' 'sip-files00086.txt'
1c832425effaf8a34c01eebf76b2b01f
b43d6c6aa36a0c3c9892741427c8cc7ca6fb14db
describe
'33140' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZV' 'sip-files00086thm.jpg'
726d29c596e53ed499a1c78612bfa592
a61be90b9c9a9e35d17e08fb7f79c285368a226b
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZW' 'sip-files00087.jp2'
cf9eeb362fbc6e886e65c38429c791d7
a85b1f2d313dc0617309e843446409fe5fe284e7
describe
'172245' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZX' 'sip-files00087.jpg'
444877721c6b7a7d13ccfaa5dc1212b5
2f28267d94491f92ec79d09be64921ff4c046888
describe
'32732' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZY' 'sip-files00087.pro'
7a9c61aa73b47778c67a60d3b50c5a36
7982275da272327c8412ff95ac04c4805b9eac74
describe
'67486' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACKZZ' 'sip-files00087.QC.jpg'
eaac4406a85a8904e3eb9a84c1465455
da34018f54ed8cc4c6a86330ab9f42c1f853f306
describe
'2319292' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAA' 'sip-files00087.tif'
a7561075578291c4dbfd9e7674940017
63c9f41eca57d5d4bbe0a4a5546fa21f33fc11b3
describe
'1390' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAB' 'sip-files00087.txt'
61bfa52a32c00510373c30e484a2d8b3
345123f49e5a0d0af91842de4ff4452c5b99eaeb
describe
'31795' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAC' 'sip-files00087thm.jpg'
c86f16801e3bb897c1216165956135d2
009991bb65b3e0f71145335f421c0c1fd2506cc7
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAD' 'sip-files00088.jp2'
3cddc6ccbd25a871d6df91ebbf5e75c6
635c0a819900ae2003e28b4858e0cd77cc355f2d
describe
'162934' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAE' 'sip-files00088.jpg'
a10e71e4f2be8c04f8e9aef3525199fb
f518c302a3b30ccb8283d673aae490e3e90b00b9
describe
'32031' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAF' 'sip-files00088.pro'
c8ba1482ed8fcca3a0b2772ce021fb1c
b6642765d03d79cba93281c21e2ba4c6aa9e0554
describe
'64557' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAG' 'sip-files00088.QC.jpg'
4018d76e35688b4b572cf66af0c256f0
531f328502cc2f52ef5a9978ab2c8ccce57fbc66
describe
'2319204' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAH' 'sip-files00088.tif'
1d403a103c56d76c3a0b909a86392292
bf5bae125e65b1e456cad028adf8be0cdce4364f
describe
'1313' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAI' 'sip-files00088.txt'
a8c0a3fe43ecff12f533701a6702fa5d
d42a9be70b38f2df5775f08f1400d0887653fd41
describe
'31008' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAJ' 'sip-files00088thm.jpg'
2481576f44b30ba0cff7e8734a8f3bb6
b11132856e0d2f8727390ef4c9e5618845079cfc
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAK' 'sip-files00089.jp2'
4cd4e1aa60d6e7db60ccd1fda0fca889
a26764090a1a7e4957a32c8bfcccb9a60d06d202
describe
'182348' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAL' 'sip-files00089.jpg'
b670da917207ab0088858e7f337db282
b1545bb8cfd022b0dae4fba9177d7b4fa348c9d7
describe
'37641' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAM' 'sip-files00089.pro'
dfc60a7b87b35a753a036c368f30b169
8553c8df27e39e0641047def24d0ada79677b705
describe
'71725' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAN' 'sip-files00089.QC.jpg'
af30f094978ae0430ce1b936f78da088
552bbf4663da043c90e2586a0409d19d06427ffb
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAO' 'sip-files00089.tif'
ab79e5e84b085add53176dae31741137
10860ecdc3ac228242e8ee3b0c4848852e8c32df
describe
'1494' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAP' 'sip-files00089.txt'
877aa6f242b6c4fbb9123fa0c5ac6cbd
7ab00a7e119f89aef60a53f1599d0a844c536e3f
describe
'32837' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAQ' 'sip-files00089thm.jpg'
f63fb35fd806b13efe2181ee6512f42b
bf50926d1f8d8d306d5d3beac83c6699779e85fc
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAR' 'sip-files00090.jp2'
1f8fb0345e1fec83c95e0a6519f5d3f0
b4b1e0667d4ea82a23dc356e9e09807c8ebe060b
describe
'170424' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAS' 'sip-files00090.jpg'
eb7a9542fa73744007913909cfa4ba1b
607cfa41e8c9aba588adc0debcb77a74f3846419
describe
'32156' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAT' 'sip-files00090.pro'
ca186fb1141bd5e048b422b3f269370d
94c6ada151ec4dc0288a81a0cc61c75f6ce6edcd
describe
'67439' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAU' 'sip-files00090.QC.jpg'
732fec0b8b7c6b5ab887305a7f7f74d5
14aa4c13af11034fb8302a93179fd9440bc4961e
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAV' 'sip-files00090.tif'
dd64d3c53c21f244d5e740e5cbc693eb
f85ff142ec64c126ea90f42a185f10ba0ddd79dd
describe
'1338' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAW' 'sip-files00090.txt'
3735d79fd76dd2c7a01c888ab9dd21e2
110448885a0cfc4b78574487d06dfe706e3fc9f6
describe
'32902' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAX' 'sip-files00090thm.jpg'
ee7e6738e98bb85761f8ccdd72f909ac
4cc3b0891705459bc00c221fc4e03df49a8c05bd
describe
'287190' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAY' 'sip-files00091.jp2'
57956553697f111d922506f35793764a
5ab78ecc7d80345e4d16d895afbec6edecea78db
describe
'178067' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLAZ' 'sip-files00091.jpg'
3f32fe4af3055c00392a93b8560b6520
feaaa746b9549009a2ecbe716676e9a813da5413
describe
'34578' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBA' 'sip-files00091.pro'
73617d105361c9da13bf491e6d83e066
c3d7d155ff91c191dda67f25098879853eb8f69d
describe
'69973' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBB' 'sip-files00091.QC.jpg'
0ce0f4b13d450d9a50f02d55b612b323
3f6d1cefbf43faf5f77eae539434e41cedbeb0ca
describe
'2319884' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBC' 'sip-files00091.tif'
64ac4e3a202a9f21b140f0fb215c4dae
fd1022e0bcaeeb5428e5407d2474e2acb17c99e7
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBD' 'sip-files00091.txt'
2731ce4f36b35b3d9af8723ae01db8c5
b57741527bdf6e51cd6015f45734da5f032e6472
describe
'33039' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBE' 'sip-files00091thm.jpg'
e0518ba71a288088303035ec7093166a
a78460286ac3bd4f195dfcfbe19078f295783e88
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBF' 'sip-files00092.jp2'
043521226aee47d03fbdd43a0ab5529d
3e072c433cc34870a31bd7f47905afaea286f8b2
describe
'181368' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBG' 'sip-files00092.jpg'
735dd64b7cd08fe2f8d2435d51b76e71
6b5e1c38b187da11a1a44f6a5d18d60eac0ec5a9
describe
'36835' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBH' 'sip-files00092.pro'
2b7aad6117d75baba898e8e5524df23e
a55f3446df588dc41f1ff226e216606c633cd89a
describe
'70301' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBI' 'sip-files00092.QC.jpg'
91dd60a5a459b501322dbc0e14731a7e
bbb68f50fb6287a32fecfe71dde9a3dcafe0f097
describe
'2319904' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBJ' 'sip-files00092.tif'
8de75ab727cf8cd6f455e33e311e2637
9fc43853210ad07f0aadf4965d5f003add5c9dfa
describe
'1475' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBK' 'sip-files00092.txt'
90b8551d8e5b4380d49b9d1a7869d295
128fc701de74aa6c9357c2159708778a5cb80a69
describe
'32884' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBL' 'sip-files00092thm.jpg'
500e2b3716b19939739f498b3d1995cf
2597036bab2d6f88b4aca63405fcb041973d1aa8
describe
'287182' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBM' 'sip-files00093.jp2'
705f01da203c39ca09cceb548b21d1b0
fd45a3cfb9148a582fdebe62a2803b51f39a4fe0
describe
'176501' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBN' 'sip-files00093.jpg'
fcabe8bcdeffe6ffa7f1ec7ca9722122
2db8f89b42765b26d295e4542753bf15a00bd4cb
describe
'34418' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBO' 'sip-files00093.pro'
a9c7ac2fa843eda9e05031ba5da515ff
c3d87698cffd9e30eb98049592a399a2fda2ef30
describe
'68731' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBP' 'sip-files00093.QC.jpg'
a436de26fc107df66f44abbd04b945d1
620337ee0cf1d6b08b4657053fc007d838688b2e
describe
'2319600' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBQ' 'sip-files00093.tif'
0c38e930b9e4d06208d6595c4280e8c4
ca034ab676443d9636b26bc3a458db65bfc9511b
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBR' 'sip-files00093.txt'
359c61b02f0e58e1ed9f5fe550b7d1ac
fcdf54bd2b3865d794e2544a0df24dddd7a685ee
describe
'32689' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBS' 'sip-files00093thm.jpg'
8ce5536fb6a04128ed2a8836c531ac71
9a22e1872692e03adc1e00a64a74bb92f844ea90
describe
'287188' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBT' 'sip-files00094.jp2'
bf2927f58c191b4da669a169de165072
5738d8e714487c20e08696ec53312572427009ef
describe
'183663' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBU' 'sip-files00094.jpg'
67013a55f58f6de7292cc5a377c70601
770f35f0545f199cfd38aadfb28efda3c97a9613
describe
'35744' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBV' 'sip-files00094.pro'
5b965fdba8cf08d66403743923f7c1ac
4a78ae2b25dee0d30c49f438f1db27c057cc972b
describe
'72240' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBW' 'sip-files00094.QC.jpg'
be4b1c4869cc7b1537229b85f1b0de29
89d549490be7c8f09bb18e2d3933974e8524c4f6
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBX' 'sip-files00094.tif'
9b1dc3265834d5fee77a29366e6ccc4c
07604ce27db7dae3517846792ff82aaf69437b86
describe
'1484' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBY' 'sip-files00094.txt'
65f4ec778cccceef3c3124d8c2c51189
bc7ea8c68d51f8783cb14bfa2f15deed0d686538
describe
'33381' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLBZ' 'sip-files00094thm.jpg'
77dbff18a5037ca880941215cb184c24
61eb96c2a25541ee9a4151dc4265cbbd04552049
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCA' 'sip-files00095.jp2'
a77612367ac7da5cffbf888795ade578
50925f261075855177134ba68362411bb7928996
describe
'180344' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCB' 'sip-files00095.jpg'
bb7861bf629f5d0723afb1dfd01de426
25eb440b740f314616d351d55d9360c5b610f426
describe
'34817' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCC' 'sip-files00095.pro'
bc874d877d445e62af06464b8ee9679f
2e8ad56a907a1892f1688b2801417868ce4440db
describe
'71075' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCD' 'sip-files00095.QC.jpg'
0f45a0c176978a020af83793b885c617
65c6afc0688f3840bef29186260f3ab55fabd0dd
describe
'2319988' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCE' 'sip-files00095.tif'
5cc21b4bfb646b95c3ca138ca0b94d49
7d2b817927c3460156b768af4d706e6d6d5c5e16
describe
'1473' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCF' 'sip-files00095.txt'
71901c3bc0b8686bb2591bb638e30fcf
112122206d2e8545a2df17a090d148044381b097
describe
'33359' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCG' 'sip-files00095thm.jpg'
b62f3a4c1b449531298db4c89c8e5776
0d266cb158a7524f78771212dba9dbc93f15dd89
describe
'287175' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCH' 'sip-files00096.jp2'
f1d1172d51aa1b10a1e5efb71962a329
7ee33241d9c7f7d71303e89fa4ec35dbc05adcb5
describe
'181653' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCI' 'sip-files00096.jpg'
74ad5dcf77e3074bd1f41b27b5dfb2a9
8f9affd2997f4a00f9a9e7bc2d78783a81f25f10
describe
'35789' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCJ' 'sip-files00096.pro'
d4ec9da68c82d9b38222b84380f9cac4
2d518c4e98355e9c42763e460b56fba3849eaf68
describe
'70116' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCK' 'sip-files00096.QC.jpg'
e5ce708a62242eb1e0f70207eb027697
dd1988e5b6037d06b203de2d9fe003cf6f4557f6
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCL' 'sip-files00096.tif'
9e8dbd2e0a38b466882aed4af68de3fa
928a9177b331d3964c907953de7cb1fdce3bdc3f
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCM' 'sip-files00096.txt'
ea1bb0f91e4b7f7cae396b0748a3d6f6
f19e942f49b9ef9e72647eb704d1a52dbe6b0d9c
describe
'32963' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCN' 'sip-files00096thm.jpg'
814fa9fe33895c71790b1c3203a41596
29090805813a7e3f4f5c85277adc2de9270334e0
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCO' 'sip-files00097.jp2'
7a58dd55f643949b48cd4c69c3b50fa7
a68c008d47af9508683646a0a990da7f91fe8d5c
describe
'183898' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCP' 'sip-files00097.jpg'
fc0071c4657d0d53d7a743a4d3e4c249
508441679865dc33e0498cbe7b8d4b071979fc99
describe
'37717' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCQ' 'sip-files00097.pro'
9d1f99582305fb591b0b4177119f72ce
f7fb5cd22c878c94ea17b54a1f31e18a882eb923
describe
'71816' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCR' 'sip-files00097.QC.jpg'
05db83454b3de122c0f367e7417e0601
5508634301e4faba7516a8d492d2be729ca8bf0f
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCS' 'sip-files00097.tif'
2bfef14ef085ee8a66ac50fdcab4880b
ab25efbe68a5a8365039982d2dc6876a64f362bd
describe
'1509' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCT' 'sip-files00097.txt'
ab9e81a8c3fc202f5f4ff8d1df26610b
f4e3ba195b318cb9affda6eba9a2e01390eb3011
describe
'33145' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCU' 'sip-files00097thm.jpg'
5163763b44aeef4fed0f9e3d878b22e3
1ed1a9f443eaebd2446e86d7be070a2e1b5fe4c3
describe
'287265' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCV' 'sip-files00098.jp2'
cee9bc904c09d6d5e0ff6440199d1a0d
ed6d305e263f3fa2d40326552f53e37f14a21571
describe
'176002' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCW' 'sip-files00098.jpg'
5a2a6aa71be63acdbed84ef25821d3d6
ca757dda1633c555bd9cca48e13ee74951532861
describe
'32841' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCX' 'sip-files00098.pro'
5bfbb17d66aec785be96071893f933b7
aac6b86d7dab71b11a49a6047a161d51742ea92f
describe
'68272' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCY' 'sip-files00098.QC.jpg'
d791f632836187d01ee3405920f1d5f7
bcec4b4accaa87970f2a4bdbcbb53881c17ac34b
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLCZ' 'sip-files00098.tif'
4b338f80ec0cbab9c46408bd8b127e79
4791960b795aae5720cc54f18ab02d066b323713
describe
'1379' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLDA' 'sip-files00098.txt'
9e2aee2e74f30a90a75751427ac88624
0161783972350d02fa1dbf08f0817b66041fc857
describe
'32580' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLDB' 'sip-files00098thm.jpg'
f33b934521f2d346bd879db68d409523
339bce51a485ae96139de0285bb49c2e05622fc5
describe
'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLDC' 'sip-files00099.jp2'
2b979318a6c1bf8520f1c32ffe39eb3e
a01665f18f593b1af2d7355755d7dfdba23eb913
describe
'163668' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLDD' 'sip-files00099.jpg'
a6750fb134ca379bfa667f2a61a7b9a4
aa30459dfa42b9b6a9de5f52572e6d99bd01f6c6
describe
'31831' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLDE' 'sip-files00099.pro'
d8723af74e2d75facfad76b06300975e
5cc978a2125a45f2f5337067b48257f9d7858f9c
describe
'64488' 'info:fdaE20080410_AAACOJfileF20080411_AACLDF' 'sip-files00099.QC.jpg'
96f62ee72df6771fb7aadd17b794b2ab
d77cbd163f34e80fc9e326b5dd72d8e834c0328e
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a
es
|

2


The Baldwin Library

University | |
RmB
Florida


Wer Book

pee
ae
CONTENTS.

CHAP.
I. In Diseracez,

II. Sytvia’s FRrienps, .
III. Toe Broxen Promise,
IV. In Fartzy Woop, .

V. Teppy’s Dornes,

VI. Synvia’s TRIUMPH, .

36

47

75

84






SYLVIA BROOKE.

CHAPTER L

IN DISGRACE,

P E bright autumn morning a little girl stood
(ey gazing somewhat dolefully out of the nursery

a window into the street below. The street
ran through the pleasant village of Woodleigh, and
was a very bright and cheerful-looking street too, for
in it was transacted all the small business concerns of
the little place; in fact the village might be described
as having its beginning as well as its end in this one
street, The one butcher, the baker, the grocer—who,
in addition to his proper goods, sold crockery and
‘tinware—all had their shops here; not to speak of
that one most beloved and frequented of the more
juvenile portion of the population—the little general
shop, where Hannah Webb displayed a tempting store
of bull’s-eyes, peppermints, tops and toys, judiciously
8 SYLVIA BROOKE,

varied with tapes and buttons, thread, cotton and
wool for thrifty housewives, in addition to a hundred
trifles too numerous to be described.

Here, pressing their noses against the small diamond-
paned window, the youth of Woodleigh spent many
a happy and exciting hour in the discussion of how
the sum of one penny, belonging to a single fortunate
member of the nose-flattened group, might be spent
to the greatest advantage; the whole troop, as a rule,
when the momentous question had been decided,
accompanying the owner of the said penny into the
dark little shop, listening with grave consideration
to his or her request for a penn’orth of bull’s-eyes, or
a ha’porth of peppermint and a sheet of theatrical
characters—still to be obtained in that obscure village
—and fixing solemn, attentive eyes on Hannah as
she weighed out the goodies, as though it were the
first time they had happened to see the performance,
whereas it was repeated daily, and many times a day,
before their eyes as purchasers, or for their entertain-
ment as they peered through the lattice.

Here, too, the good wives of the village spent many
a delightful hour of gossip and criticism of one
another’s doings, husbands, children, and general
affairs, while they turned over and made their bargains
from Mrs. Webb’s modest store of haberdashery,
generally parting from her well pleased with both her
and themselves; since nothing gives one such a pleasant
IN DISGRACE. 9

feeling of superior merit as criticising one’s neighbour
with a sympathizing friend; and Hannah Webb was
too wary a confidante not to agree with each critic in
her turn—that is to say, with the last speaker.
“Law!” she would say, “it’s turn and turn about, and
nobody the worse!”

This was indeed the fact, for the village housewives
lived in great amity and good-will with one another as
a rule, and if Mrs. Barnwell did think Mrs. Turner
ought to be ashamed’ of herself for letting that great
gal of hers flaunt out on a Sunday in a hat with a
great orstrich feather as might a done for Miss Sylvia,
but was a deal too fine for the likes of Sally Turner;
and if Mrs. Turner, hearing of the remark, hastened to
retort that anyhow her ’usband spent his wages on his

own family, and not at’ the White ’orse, like some
people’s ’ushands she could mention if so minded,—
still, these little amenities were soon forgotten, and
Mrs, Barnwell and Mrs. Turner would meet at the
‘Mothers’ Tea,” which was given each Christmas by
Mrs. Burton, the rector’s wife, and talk to each other
just as amiably and copiously as they drank their
hot, sweet tea, and ate their thick plum-cake and
bread and butter.

At the end of the village street, where it began to
lose itself in the country road that ran its way for
many miles, dusty in the heat and muddy in the rains,
stood the smithy, a long, low, dusky shed, with its
10 SYLVIA BROOKE.

heart of living fire ever and anon blazing up into
fierce flame under the breath of the bellows, whence
all day long came the familiar yet always new and
entrancing clink of iron beaten on the anvil. Under
the smithy eaves, watching the flying sparks, and
listening to the iron music, were always to be found
such of the village children as home, or school, or the
delights of Hannah Webb’s window left at liberty for
the unfailing charms of the shaping of the glowing
horse-shoe, the rhythmical swing ‘and beat of the ham-
mer, and the smith’s kind blackéned face and muscular
arms.

At the other end of the village, where the village
street led into the high-road to Winston, the county
town three or four miles away, stood half-a-dozen or
more houses of some pretensions; one or two so close
to the red brick footpath that passing walkers there
could look straight into their lower windows, others
a little back, and approached by green doors, set in
the high walls that hid their first stories. Over these
walls, ivy and Virginia creeper and climbing roses had
straggled from the gardens within, and greeted the
passer-by with their beauty and scent, or deluged
him with rain-drops should he walk unwarily beneath
their garlands after a shower.

It was from an upper window in one of these wall-
enclosed houses that the Miss Sylvia, who had been
thought worthy of Sally Turner’s “orstrich” feather,
IN DISGRACE. 11

gazed disconsolate on the bright autumn morning I
spoke of.

Her wistful dark eyes were not looking either up or
down the village street, neither towards the forge to
her right, nor towards Hannah Webb’s little shop to
her left, although both these spots held a high place
in her affections; they were fixed on a neat dog-cart
which stood in the road just opposite the green door
belonging to her home, the spirited horse pawing the
ground as if impatient to be off with his master to the
town, while Job, the groom, stood by, patting his
glossy neck.

And Sylvia was not going! She was in dis-
grace,

Sylvia Brooke was an only daughter, though not an
only child; her brother Geoffrey, a boy of eleven, and
a little baby brother eighteen months old, shared her
home and her father and mother’s love—shared, but
in very unequal proportions.

Mrs. Brooke adored and spoiled her handsome, fair-
haired, pink-cheeked boy, a good and honest lad in
the main, who showed fewer evil effects of his mother’s
unwise petting than might have been expected; and
as to the Baby Teddy, surely there never had been or
would be such a baby before or again. Its mother at
least thought so, and since many other mothers have
thought the same of other babies, it must be concluded
that babies, as a race, are more of the nature of pro-
12 SYLVIA BROOKE,

digies than the surprising numbers in which they visit
‘this earth would seem to show.

But for her little slender, dark-skinned, dark-eyed
daughter Mrs. Brooke had no such admiring worship.
The love she bore her was of a very different character,
and such as gave but little sense of warmth to the
child’s sensitive nature.

Sylvia had never forgotten how—sitting apart with
her doll, silent and attentive, while her mother talked
with a visitor—she had heard her say in answer to
some question, “Oh, you know I don’t care about
girls,”

Miss Milner, the visitor, a young lady with a pretty
bright young face and blue eyes, which the little girl
had been gazing at with the admiration which even in

childhood we feel for personal charms we do not our-

selves possess, looked quickly round at the child, as if
imagining that her mother must have spoken in ignor-
ance of her presence; but Mrs. Brooke’s languid, “Oh,
you need not mind Sylvia; she does not notice. If it
were Geoffrey now—but he is so unusually intelligent
for his age!” undeceived her.

This was some years ago, for Sylvia was nine years
old now; but she had not forgotten that her mother
did not “care about girls;” nor had she forgotten
either that when she said good-bye that day, Miss
Milner had put her arm round her and kissed her as
her own mother but seldom did.
IN DISGRACE. 13

Children’s hearts are deep and very silent, and even
the tenderest comprehension and sympathy find it
difficult to fathom their inmost unformed thoughts
and hopes and fears-— Mrs. Brooke had never even
attempted to fathom her little daughter’s. Poor
woman! It was not that she was really unkind or cruel;
she would have resented vehemently any accusation
of injustice in the division of her love for her children;
probably she would have shed tears over it—for she
was given to tears, being a delicate, languid sort of
woman, with a great reputation for being gentle and
“ladylike,” and a secret contempt for women who
were of stronger or juster nature. “Sylvia was really
such an odd child,” she would have said; “so vehe-
ment and impulsive at times, at others so moody
and ill-tempered, you never knew how to manage
her.”

If you had answered that perhaps the child needed
a little of the wealth of love lavished on her brother,
yearned, without knowing what she wanted, for a
hearty motherly kiss, a tender “God bless you, dear!”
such as Geoffrey won often and often from his mother’s
lips, she would probably have repeated fretfully that
Sylvia was such an odd child, so different to Geoff
with his affectionate ways, so talkative and excitable
at one time, so silent and dull at others.

And it was all true; Sylvia was quite different from
her brother, she was impulsive and vehement at




14 SYLVIA BROOKE.

times, and moody and ill-tempered at others; but in
her mother’s heart there was not the qudentandieg
love for her that would have brought forth and
fostered the best in her, and helped her to fight
against the worst. And stranger still, Mrs. Brooke
had. no conception of the loving depths in her little
daughter’s heart, and looked upon her‘as a far from
affectionate child; so blind did her want of sym-
pathetic insight make her.

Even the child’s appearance—her clear olive skin,
her curly black hair, her large liquid eyes which could
widen into soft clear radiance, or dart passionate
glances, or cloud over moodily; her spare, light little
figure—told against her with her mother, whose
beauty, considerable in her youth, was of the soft
pink-and-white kind which charms by its suggestion
of flowers and all soft and dainty things.

Mrs. Brooke was no longer very young, but much
of her prettiness remained, and her complexion had
been inherited by Geoffrey and the baby Teddy, while
poor Sylvia had carried her “oddity” even into her
face and form and was as dark as a gypsy.

“The image of the Vernons!” sighed Mrs. Brooke
to her mother, who was paying her a visit. (Mr.
Brooke’s mother had been a Vernon, and little Sylvia’s
colouring had come to her direct from her maternal
grandmother, skipping a generation; for Mr. Brooke,
like his wife, was fair, and had been pink and white
IN DISGRACE. 15

in his youth). “TI can’t think how John and I can
have had such a dark child—so fair as we both are.
It is very provoking. People tell me Sylvia will be a
beauty—a real brunette beauty. I can assure you Mr.
Evelyn raves about her eyes—positively raves; but I
must confess I fail to see it. I never could admire
that dusky sort of complexion. It seems to me so
unladylike—almost unwomanly, indeed.”

“Nonsense, Emily!” answered her mother, a hand-
some elderly lady, the image of what her daughter
would be at her age, but with a great deal more
energy and decision in face and manner than Mrs.
Brooke’s life of languid delicacy was likely to de-
velop. ‘Nonsense, Emily! the child’s well enough;
and she’s a perfect little lady anyhow, whatever her
complexion is. Besides, there’s no need to puzzle your
head overmuch about how she came by her dark skin,
Look at John’s mother—Sylvia will be her Grand-
mother Brooke over again.”

Mrs. Brooke sighed; John’s admiration for his
mother’s appearance remained a sore point with her.
Let him be as fond of her as ever he liked; indeed she
had nothing to say against her, she was as kind a
mother-in-law as any woman could wish for—but she
could not help feeling that, with a wife of such
exquisite colouring and generally refined appearance
' as a standard of fémale excellence, John was not
justified in keeping to his opinion that his mother was


16 SYLVIA BROOKE.

the finest lady and the best-looking woman of her age
in the world.

In fact, in his secret heart, I think John felt
glad that his little daughter took her looks from his
mother instead of his fair-skinned wife or his ruddy
self.

Sylvia’s father owned the deepest love and alle-
giance of Sylvia’s childish heart—quite unknown to
him for a long time. Mr. Brooke was a happy-natured,
cheerful man, a kind and attentive husband if at
times a little given to laugh at his wife’s languid ways
and over-refinements, and an affectionate and in-
dulgent father. He saw but little of them, being
greatly absorbed in the business which took him to
the town every day immediately after breakfast, and
from which he returned to dinner too late to see
enough of his children to know much of their thoughts
or ways. He was of opinion that children, while
they were still young, should be chiefly the mother’s
care, and except for certain broad rules of conduct
which his integrity of nature made binding on them
as well as on himself, and which he would not allow
to be broken through, he left his wife to manage the
family in her own way.

If he noticed occasionally, with a certain unpleasant
surprise, that his little daughter was by no means her
mother’s favourite,—that she was sharply taken to”

task for childish faults that passed without comment ~

(489)




IN DISGRACE. 17

in Geoffrey—he smothered the thought by assuring
himself that it would all come right in time, sym-
pathy would arise between Sylvia and her mother
when the girl grew older and less odd; for since his
wife was always lamenting over the child’s peculiar-
ities he supposed there must be something in it.

But he noticed to more purpose, that on the other
hand his eldest son was running a fair chance of being
completely spoiled by constant petting; and therefore,
with masculine dread of scenes and entreaties and
tears, made arrangements for his attendance at the
Grammar School at Winston, and having informed his
wife of his decision, and patiently argued away her
reproaches for his cruelty in depriving her of her boy
without any warning, had carried his point, and from
that day had taken Geoffrey in to the town with him
every morning, left him at school, and let him walk
back every afternoon in time to delight his mother’s
eyes at her tea-table.

It was a small incident that opened Mr. Brooke’s
eyes to the hidden store of love for him in his little
daughter’s heart; but once opened they were never
closed to it again, and he repaid it with love of his
own all the greater that it had something of remorse
in it for his blindness. This was how it came about.

Every morning Sylvia and her mother were wont
to struggle through an hour or two of lessons, too

commonly painful to both teacher and learner.
(489) B
18 SYLVIA BROOKE.

For lessons it would be more correct to say arith-
metic, for Sylvia was a quick and ready learner of all
else, fond of reading, and intelligent in everything but
those terrible sums. For these she seemed to have an
utter incapacity in her early years, and the more
figures were drummed into her head the less she
seemed to comprehend what they meant.

Mrs. Brooke said Sylvia was incurably stupid.
Sylvia said nothing, but may have thought that to be
so often told so was not quite the way to make her
more clever. Mrs, Brooke declared Sylvia was sullen,
and, alas! it was too often true; but then Sylvia may
have felt, without power of expressing it, that her
mother’s irritable, confusing corrections of her mis-
takes was not conducive to good temper any more
than to a clear understanding of the subject in hand.

One day, when the irritation on both sides had

_caused the lesson-hour to be even more painful than
usual, Sylvia had been dismissed in disgrace, and
forbidden in consequence to go nutting with Geoffrey
on his return. from school in the afternoon. Mrs.
Brooke’s representations of the enormity of Sylvia’s
conduct, and the impossibility of teaching such a
wilful and stupid child when she herself was so far
from strong, and her nerves so easily upset—as he
knew—at last worked her husband up to consent to
go into the. nursery and “ speak seriously” to the
small culprit.- He went unwillingly enough; he hated
IN DISGRACE. 19

scoldings and uncomfortable things in general, and he
had very little idea of what he intended to say.

Sylvia was sitting disconsolately at. the open win-
dow, quite alone, for Geoffrey was out, and Nurse was
putting Baby to bed.

The mournful pose of the little figure did not do
much towards helping Mr. Brooke to severe words, but
either some trace of real or assumed sternness in his
face, or the unusual fact of his appearance in the
nursery at that hour, seemed to the child so ominous
that the great dark eyes she raised to his were dilated,
and the blood rose in her olive cheek.

Mr. Brooke’s kind heart smote him, but he went to
work bravely. He sat down, and drawing the child
towards him began with due severity :

“Sylvia, I hear from your mother that you re
been a very naughty girl to-day—”

He stopped suddenly, for the child had broken into
a storm of sobs and tears so violent that it frightened:
him. All the father—-and mother—in his heart rose
up then, and he took the forlorn little culprit on his |
knee, and with his arm tight round her and her face
pressed against his breast, held her until the paroxysm.
was over and she could listen to him.

“Why, Sylvia, my dear, what is it?” he said then,
with a quite novel and horrible feeling of remorse at
his heart, for the thought had pierced him like an
arrow that she had felt afraid of him.
20 SYLVIA BROOKE,

“You weren't frightened, my darling, were you!—
You weren’t afraid of your own father, Sylvia?”

The child put both her arms round his neck and
clasped him tight, her face still hidden in his breast.

“Oh, no! oh, no!” she whispered in a quivering
voice. ‘Oh, father, I do love you so!”

‘Mr. Brooke’s own voice was not quite steady nor
his eyes quite clear as he raised the little tear-stained
face to his and kissed it tenderly more than once, and
he vowed to himself that come what might his little
girl should never miss a father’s love and care while
he lived. Aloud he said only, “Don’t you think I love
my Sylvia, too?” and felt an odd sense of relief from
suspense when the child answered by a tighter clasp
of his neck, and a tremulous “ Yes, father dear.”

So ended the “serious talk” Mr. Brooke had under-
taken to have with his daughter; but although he
told his wife that he had spoken to Sylvia, and felt
certain the lessons would go on better for the future,
somehow he said nothing of the effect his words had
on her, or of her protestation of love for him—it
seemed to him a sacred confidence. Which goes to
prove that, in spite of his fair skin and blue eyes, Mr.
Brooke was more like his mother and his daughter
_ than appeared at first sight.

As for Geoffrey, who, it has been said, was an
honest and healthy-minded boy, as incapable of mean-
ness or deliberate unkindness as his father, whom he
IN DISGRACE, 21

resembled in character as much as he resembled his
mother in face and comeliness, he and Sylvia were
great friends and allies and had many a happy hour
together; for Sylvia had great powers of enjoyment
and could throw herself heart and soul into games
and pursuits when lessons and moody thoughts and
blind endeavours to gain her mother’s favour were
quite forgotten.

If Geoffrey was inclined to laugh at her fancies
and “nonsense,” he owned she was not a coward at
any rate; she could climb trees like a boy, and if she
was more or less afflicted with the general feminine
incapacity for throwing a stone properly, even at that
she was not so bad as some girls—Daisy Burton, for
instance, who, if she aimed at one object, invariably
hit another, unless the stone somehow got unac-
countably behind instead of in front of her.

Geoffrey both loved and admired his mother with
a love and admiration which, boy as he was, had
something in them of his father’s manly toleration
of her weaknesses. Probably he was quite aware of
her indulgence of him and her want of sympathy with
his sister, since such things are appreciated by children

-in a way that their habitual shyness of explaining
their thoughts to their elders makes difficult to believe;
but considering the dangers of such a state of things
it had but small effect on his relations with Sylvia,
who returned his affection with all the ardour of her
22 SYLVIA BROOKE.

vehement nature, and in spite of her mother’s decided
preference for him admired him in her childish way
as much as her mother did. She keenly felt a sense
of something wanting in her mother’s love for her,
but in her generous nature there was no jealousy.

As for the baby, he was the admitted pet of the
household—a lovely, soft, fair, dimpled darling, at
what motherly women call “‘just the interesting age,”
his rosy tongue twisting his ambitious attempts at
speech into that “little language” which is the sweetest
on earth; his plump legs failing under him at mo-
ments and letting him in for unexpected and sudden
sittings on the floor; and his blue eyes limpid with
that heaven’s own light which he had so lately
left.

Sylvia adored him, and was adored by him in return;
she could always bring back his merry laugh after his
feelings had been hurt by such indignities as having
his face washed when he did not like it, or the soft
golden rings of his curly hair combed out. Nurse,
who was young and lively, found Miss Sylvia a great
help—so steady and trustworthy, she said. More
often than her mistress knew or would have permitted
she would leave Baby to Sylvia’s care, and the little
girl was proud of the trust,

For a long time after the day when Sylvia and her
father had their explanation, the lessons went so well
that Mrs. Brooke congratulated herself on her wisdom
IN DISGRACE. 23

in having persuaded her husband to speak seriously
to the child.

Perhaps the certainty that her father dearly loved
her unconsciously helped Sylvia to do her best, for
happiness is a great brightener of the wits; and it was
a real happiness to the little girl to know for certain
—not only as part of a general rule that parents love
their children—that the father she loved so dearly
returned her affection in full. Perhaps Mrs. Brooke
herself felt better and stronger and less easily irritated
by her daughter’s failings. However it was, the les-
sons for some considerable time were not the weariness
and pain to both parties they had been of old.

But imperceptibly things changed again, and to a
great extent the old state of things returned once
more.

Tt began by Mrs. Brooke accusing her husband of
spoiling Sylvia, whereupon he retorted with some
angry words about her petting of Geoffrey and wish-
ing to turn the boy into a perfect milksop. Then
Mrs. Brooke cried, and he apologized for his violence,
while retaining his opinion; but the incident ruffled
Mrs. Brooke’s nerves, and that day the sums went a
good deal awry. Sylvia’s thoughts were away among
the sunny woods and the reapers in the golden corn-
fields, and on being sharply reprimanded for her
absent answers the old moody look began to creep
into her eyes once more.
24 SYLVIA BROOKE.

And so the lesson-hour went on day after day,
sometimes peacefully, sometimes much the reverse,
until one morning, after some very flagrant and appa-
rently wilful mistake of Sylvia’s, her mother dismissed
her, telling her that as a punishment for her negli-
gence and ill-temper she would be kept at home on
the following morning instead of going for a promised
drive to the station with her father and Geoffrey, who
were to leave her to come home in charge of Job, the
coachman, while they went on by railway to her
Grandmother Brooke’s, where they were to stay for
three days.

Mr. Brooke looked vexed when his wife told him
of Sylvia’s disgrace, and even tried to mollify her
anger so far as to permit Sylvia to enjoy the drive
on condition of the little girl’s promise to behave well
at her lessons during his three days’ absence; but
Mrs, Brooke was inexorable. She said Sylvia should
be made to understand that she must not defy her
mother’s authority, and if her father encouraged her
in her naughtiness there would be no bearing with her.

It was true Sylvia had been naughty, and he could
not hold her blameless; but he was sorry. So he
sighed and said no more. But when he saw the child
with the old moody, sullen look in her eyes, and felt
she needed comfort in spite of her evil doings, he put
his arm round her and drew her to him before he
said:
SYLVIA’S FRIENDS. 25

“Sylvia, I am sorry; but give me a kiss and pro-
mise me to be a good girl while I am away, and do
just what your mother tells you.”

And Sylvia once more flung her arms round his
neck, and promised with tears that she “would be
good—indeed she would be good always!”—a large
promise but a very sincere one.

And so it came to pass that on that bright autumn
morning she stood at the nursery window gazing
longingly at the dog-cart and Job.

CHAPTER II
SYLVIA’S FRIENDS.

Wee little Brookes had not many companions of

their own age, for among the few houses of the
better kind in the village, their own and that of the
rector, Mr. Burton, were the only two made bright by
children’s voices.

Tom and Daisy Burton, the two eldest of the rec-
tor’s large young family, were the chief companions
and playmates of Geoffrey and Sylvia Brooke, Tom
and Geoffrey especially being sworn friends and fel-
lows in fun and mischief of all kinds. Daisy was a
delicate, fretful child, and in spite of the love between
26 SYLVIA BROOKE,

her and Sylvia their pleasure in each other’s society ~
was too often marred by bickerings, of which Sylvia
always repented bitterly, with resolutions of better
behaviour for the future, like those of older people
not always remembered when the occasion for putting
them into practice arose. But the two little girls
were nevertheless really fond of each other, and some
of Sylvia’s happiest hours were spent in the rectory
garden, into which kind, overworked Mrs. Burton
was glad to turn her large young brood on fine days
to let them disport themselves, play, and quarrel and
make up again as they pleased.

Next door to the Brookes lived Mr. Evelyn, the
doctor—the Mr. Evelyn who, as Mrs. Brooke said,
“raved” about Sylvia’s eyes. Sylvia looked upon
him as quite an elderly man; indeed on being once
pressed to say how old she thought him she had shyly
hazarded fifty as probably near the mark. In reality
he was five-and-thirty, though his rather grave and
stern face made him look more than his years even to
older eyes than little Sylvia’s. Not that Sylvia had
ever found him stern; she could not remember the
time when she did not know and love him, and she
treated him with an affectionate and caressing con-
fidence which probably gave him an opportunity of
seeing in those dark eyes, under their long black
lashes, a brightness and beauty which her mother
failed to recognize.
SYLVIA’S FRIENDS. 27

The child could just remember the time when Mr.
Evelyn had not lived alone in the house next her home;
a time when his mother, a gentle, sweet-faced elderly
lady, lived with him, and petted and made much of
her dear “Will.” She could just remember—like
something seen in a pleasant dream—the flower-scented
parlour in which Mrs. Evelyn used to sit, with its
window opening on to the sunny garden, and how
sometimes as she sat at the piano and played softly
to please the child, who had an instinctive love for
music, her son would come in quietly and sink into
a chair, a dreamy far-away expression creeping into
his eyes—dark almost as Sylvia’s own—and a peaceful,
gentle look stealing over his serious face.

But Mrs. Evelyn had been dead some years now,
and her son lived alone in the pretty house under the
strict rule of his elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Barker, of
whom Geoffrey and Sylvia stood much in awe. The
pretty parlour no longer looked as pretty as it had
done in Mrs. Evelyn’s days, for neatness was Mrs.
Barker’s sole idea of prettiness. But not seldom Mr.
Evelyn rejoiced Sylvia’s heart by inviting her to come
in and pour out his otherwise solitary cup of tea for
him; and if the little maid enjoyed his company
above measure, and gained many a bit of knowledge
and always sympathetic kindness from him, I think
he too gained somewhat from her lively prattle and
her unfeigned love for him and belief in his powers.
28 SYLVIA BROOKE.

“Really, Mr. Evelyn,” Mrs. Brooke would say in
her gentle languid voice, “you spoil that child dread-
fully; you make so much of her that she will grow
quite unbearably conceited.”

The doctor laughed.

“On the contrary, Mrs. Brooke,” he answered, “it
is I who am likely to grow conceited and be spoilt.
Such a fervent believer as Sylvia is enough to make
any man set up for a prophet—even in his own
country!”

At the big red house at the an of the village
nearest to Winston lived Mrs. Fane, an old lady
whose splendid raiment and severe manner—this last
designed to impress upon any small delinquent that
“children should be seen and not heard”—had a
sobering and somewhat alarming effect upon Sylvia’s
fanciful mind on the rare occasions of their meeting,

“Why are you afraid of Mrs. Fane, Sylvia?” asked
the doctor one day when that lady had happened to
come upon him and the child together peering into
Hannah Webb’s window, in the lively discussion of
how Sylvia could best lay out a new sixpence he had
presented her with.

The little girl blushed. “TI don’t like her,” she said
hesitating; “she makes me feel—so little—and silly.
But oh, I do love Miss Milner!”

Miss Milner, the pretty young lady whose first kiss
Sylvia had never forgotten, was Mrs. Fane’s niece;
SYLVIAS FRIENDS. 29

and it was at that lady’s house that she was paying
her yearly six weeks’ visit on the occasion the child
remembered so well. Since then she had seen Miss
Milner many times, and had formed for her one of
those romantic attachments that children are so prone
to form for their elders, especially if those elders are
pretty and sympathetic. Miss Milner was both, and
her gentle heart had opened wide to take in the little
girl, who seemed somehow to have been defrauded of
her full share of mother’s love. She did not invite
her to tea, as Mr. Evelyn did—probably her aunt
would not have approved of such spoiling. ‘Children
should be kept in their proper place—the nursery,”
she was wont to declare; and one is inclined to agree
to some extent with this opinion in these days, when
the only place considered not the “proper place” for
the children is just that nursery.

But Miss Milner often came to ask permission for
Sylvia to accompany her on long rambles over the
country, or on shopping expeditions into Winston.
It must not be thought that Mrs. Brooke was ever wil-
fully unkind to her little daughter, that she grudged
her pleasure or treated her in a consciously unjust
manner. If Mr. Evelyn or Betty Milner liked to have
the trouble of the child, she had not the slightest
objection, she said; only she could not understand
what they found so amusing and interesting about
her. With her she was silent and reserved, unless
30 SYLVIA BROOKE,

she was in one of her impulsive moods, which were
still more difficult to manage.

“Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Fane in the deep decided
voice that had such an effect on Sylvia (she always’
called her niece Elizabeth in full), you bring that
Brooke child much too forward; you and William
Evelyn are ruining her between you. Imagine my
seeing him this morning putting his nose against
Hannah Webb’s window, for all the world like the
village boys, and gravely discussing with that chit the
merits of penny toys! I have known William Evelyn
since he was a baby; and I felt it my duty to tell him
a medical man ought to have something better to do
at eleven o'clock in the morning than dawdling at a
toy-shop window with a child who ought to be in the
proper place—the nursery.”

“What did Will—what did Mr. Evelyn say, Aunt
Deborah?” said Miss Milner, who did not seem so
much shocked at the doctor’s delinquencies as Mrs.
Fane. ,

“In my young days, Elizabeth,” her aunt went on
still more severely, “young ladies did not speak of
gentlemen by their Christian names. But there are
no young /adies now perhaps, as there are no children.”

Miss Milner’s colour rose a little, but she did not
speak, and Mrs. Fane continued:

“William Evelyn, like most of you young people
nowadays, has no respect for his elders. He turned
SYLVIA’S FRIENDS. 31

off my well-meant advice with some foolish joke about
that ugly, brown-faced child having asked his opinion
as a great medical authority on the wholesomeness of
bulls’-eyes! Extremely impertinent, I consider, to a
woman old enough to be his mother!”

Miss Milner smiled. “I am sure he meant you no
disrespect, Aunt Deborah,” she pleaded, “Mr. Evelyn
couldn’t be impertinent to anyone.”

Mr. Evelyn must have returned the good opinion
Miss Milner had of him, to judge by the way he
received Sylvia’s expression of love for that young
lady on the morning in question.

“But oh, I do love Miss Milner!” the little girl had
cried.

“That's right, Sylvia,” he had answered;— “so
do I!”

At home among the servants Sylvia’s best friends
were Job the groom and Cook, both of whom had
known her ever since she was born. Job was a de-
voted adherent of both her and Geoffrey. They wor-
ried his life out at times, extorting terrible threats of
complaints to “the master,” and other dire penalties,
such as turning them out of the stable-yard once for
all—threats quite understood by the offenders to be
only a form of words of no importance whatever.

Sylvia was Cook’s especial favourite; she found
Master Geoffrey too much of the nature of a whirl-
wind in her scrupulously-kept kitchen, But many a
32 . SYLVIA BROOKE.

happy holiday morning did Sylvia spend with the
kind old woman, who had grown gray and portly in
the service of two generations of Brookes. Perhaps
the child’s likness to her Grandmother Brooke, whom
Cook had served and loved in past days, was one
reason of her affection for the little girl. So Sylvia
learned from her to make bread and pastry; and
sundry rather dirty and uneatable little rolls used
from time to time to make their appearance on Mr.
Brooke’s plate at. dinner, with Sylvia’s triumphant
assurances that Cook had let her make them “on
purpose for a surprise to him.”

I don’t know if Mr. Brooke had the gallantry ac-
tually to eat these samples of his daughter's skill, but
at least he always received them with proper gratitude
and thanks, and thereby warmed their maker’s loving
little heart.

In return for Cook’s lessons in fist own art, Sylvia
was wont to impart to her the stores of learning she
extracted from her lessons and the books she read.
She even at one time entertained the soaring ambition
of teaching Cook French—as much of that language,
that is, as she was mistress of herself, But Cook
proved so impervious to the charms of “0d est ma
chatie? Je ne sais pas,” that the attempt had to be
abandoned,

“Tf so be you wanted to call the cat—not that she:
’ad any great love for ’em herself—why not say ‘cat’
SYLVIA’S FRIENDS. 33

and a’ done with it?” she asked. And Sylvia’s views
of the advantage of calling that animal “chatte” instead
were not at that time defined enough to enable her to
answer the question satisfactorily to herself, much less
to Cook.

“Tf a person’as the privilege of being a born Briton
—as never will be slaves—” said Cook, “it seems like
flyin’ in the face of Providence to be learnin’ of furrin
languages when you ’ave a good one of your own.”

Sylvia had a very vague notion, as indeed most
people have, of the real meaning of that mysterious
action, “flying in the face of Providence;” but she
gave up teaching Cook French after that.

History and geography did not fare much better at
Cook’s uncompromising hands. She was inclined to
look upon the whole succession of the kings and
queens of England as purely imaginary characters,
and even as such showed not the slightest respect for
them, Jumping them all together as a “queer lot,”
with the exception perhaps of “Good Queen Bess”—
her favourable opinion in this case being perhaps won
by that monarch having died unmarried; for Cook
was used to say that she had never seen the man she
would change her name for. Jane Brown she had
been born and Jane Brown she would die, please
goodness; and the great queen seemed to have been
of the same way of thinking, from what she heard.

As to geography, which, like most little girls,

(489 ) Cc
34 SYLVIA BROOKE,

Sylvia thought extremely interesting, Cook’s ideas
of the divisions of the globe were of the very faintest.
The one fact she held most firmly to was the great
danger of inadvertently “crossing the line,” which she
evidently regarded as a visible and substantial obstruc-
tion when you happened to go to sea. She had been
a great traveller when she was a young gal, she said,
and was in service in a very “igh family,” with whom
she had once journeyed by sea all the way from Lon-
don to Plymouth. All through this long and perilous
voyage she had apparently been haunted by the pro-
bability not only of coming upon “the line,” but also
of making shipwreck on the “Silver Sands” — by
which she probably meant the Goodwin Sands.

Sylvia listened with respect and awe to these tales
of thrilling adventure. She felt somehow that there
must be some slight confusion about “the line,” which
she knew to be the equator dividing the globe in half,
and situated, she thought, farther from the shores of
England than Cook’s story seemed to show; but this
did not detract from the interest of the story itself in
her eyes.

Cook used to say that she had been “a rare scholard”
when she was young; but either that was so long ago
that she had had time to forget a good deal, or else
the standard of learning must have been rather low
when she was a child. In real truth, I think in her
heart she was inclined, like a good many other people,
SYLVIA’S FRIENDS, 35

to despise “ book-learning” a little. It was all very
well for “the gentry” and folks that could sit with
their hands before them, “ but it was just them books
that set the boys and girls up in their own conceit now-
adays, with their fine ’ats and feathers and fallals.”

But Cook still kept religiously to one piece. of read-
ing. Every Sunday night, when the kitchen hearth
was swept, and the fire bright, and the kettle singing
its pleasant song, she would bring out her big Bible,
and holding it ont at arms’-length, the candle between
her and the book, she would spell out a chapter to
herself, by the aid of her glasses, with a grave and
reverent countenance.

I am inclined to think that her “rare” scholarship
had dwindled down to that one achievement; but I
am sure she derived a sense of dutiful pleasure from
it, and 1 know that, in spite of her poor store of
knowledge, she was one of those who deserve to the
fullest extent the highest commendation promised to
even the best of us—“Well done, thou good and
faithful servant!”
36 SYLVIA BROOKE.

CHAPTER IIL.

THE BROKEN PROMISE.

See stood at the nursery window on that bright

autumn morning when my story began until her
father’s cheery voice, crying, “Sylvia, Sylvia! aren’t
you coming down to say good-bye to me and Geoff!”
rang out from below. Then she quickly withdrew
her gaze from Job and the dog-cart, and ran lightly
downstairs to kiss father and brother with that im-
pulsive affection no trouble or naughtiness ever caused
to fail,

“Be a good girl while I am away, Sylvia dear,”
said this tender-hearted father, “and you shall drive
with me to Heresford on Saturday afternoon.”

_ Now Heresford was an earthly paradise to Sylvia.
For in that pretty village, some eight miles off,
. stood. an old farmhouse her father went to visit at
intervals; and in its beautiful old-fashioned kitchen-
garden bordered with sweet-scented flowers, and
among the joys of its great. yard where were fowls
and pigs and dogs and horses, or in the milking-shed
where the patient cows stood awaiting each her turn
at Sally the milkmaid’s hand, Sylvia could roam at
her will, while her father talked with the old farmer
and his wife.
THE BROKEN PROMISE. 37

Then Mrs. Haynes would call her in to a meal of
sweet creamy milk and fruit and home-made cake;
and then would come the greatest joy of all—the
drive home alone with her father, through the waning
evening light, along the scented lanes, under the clear
starry sky or in the first beams of the silver moon,
while perhaps the glowworms shone in the wayside
ditch like stars that had fallen to earth and lost their
way, and white or dusky moths flitted across their
path, Sylvia’s active tongue generally ceased its
prattle at such times, and her eyes grew large and
dreamy as she sat by her father’s side, often with her
little head resting against his shoulder, and her small
soul filled with an unspeakable delight that kept her
silent,

These evening drives with her father were the
greatest joy, the most longed-for treat of Sylvia’s
childhood. —

So Mr. Brooke’s parting words soothed the ache of
regret she felt at her loss of the promised drive to the
station and back, and she came into the house after
watching the progress of the dog-cart till the turn of
the road hid it from her sight with a bright face, and
getting out her lesson-books, fell to her tasks with
so great a determination to keep her promise to her
father and be “a good girl” that the dreaded sums
went better than usual, and Mrs. Brooke had no occa-
sion to say more than half a dozen times, “Sylvia,
38 SYLVIA BROOKE,

how can you be so stupid!” or “Really, Sylvia, there
is no getting anything into your head. Do try to
show some little sense!”

But this was a mere nothing, and when lessons
were over Sylvia could run upstairs to fetch her
garden hat and have a romp with Baby, with a clear
conscience and a delightful conviction that, if only
she could manage to be no more stupid and tiresome
at to-morrow and the next day’s arithmetic lesson than
she had been to-day, Saturday’s drive to beautiful
Heresford was certain.

Hope is a great incentive to exertion, and next day
things went equally well—so well, indeed, that almost
for the first time since arithmetic had become the
bugbear of poor Sylvia’s lesson-hours her mother said
kindly: “Why can’t you always be as good as you
have been to-day, Sylvia?”

It was not a very high compliment, but it brought
the colour into the little girl’s cheeks with pleasure,
and the stirring in her heart of the love for her mother
which lay hid there always ready to spring forth at a
word,

“OQ, Mamma!” she began hesitatingly (Mrs. Brooke
insisted on being called “Mamma;” she thought it
‘more refined than the now commoner “Mother”)—
“O, Mamma! I do try—indeed, I do try!” Her eyes
began to fill and her voice choked.

“Tf you tried, Sylvia,” answered her mother, “you
THE BROKEN PROMISE. 39

would succeed; it is just because you don’t try that I
complain. But I hope now you intend to do better
for the future. You may run across and ask if Daisy
may come to dinner and go out with you and Nurse
and Baby this afternoon.”

You see Mrs. Brooke was really anxious to do what
was right and kind by her little daughter, and wished
to reward her good behaviour; only she did not under-
stand that if she could have taken Sylvia in her arms
and answered her pleading little speech with a loving
“Yes, dear; I know you do!” the child’s heart would
have repaid the concession a hundredfold with grateful
love and loyalty. Sylvia could not have explained
this, though she felt the chill all ardently loving
natures feel when repulsed. But she went gladly to
beg for Daisy’s company, and the two little girls spent
a very happy afternoon together, laughing and chat-
tering in their own way as older girls do in theirs, and
Sylvia forgot the troubled sense of disappointment;
and when Mr. Evelyn, hearing the merry voices in
the garden next his own, came in and begged to be
allowed to carry off Miss Burton and Miss Brooke to
cheer him at his tea, who so proud as she as she
poured it out with discreet care and dignity from the
old-fashioned silver tea-pot and cream-jug?

Mrs, Barker was gracious enough to send in for the
young ladies not only a plate of hot buttered toast,
but a glass dish of strawberry jam of her own making;
40 ' SYLVIA BROOKE,

and when the two little girls had done full justice to
these dainties Mr. Evelyn brought out all the books
that Sylvia most delighted in, and with an eager little
maid on each side of him, with flushed cheeks and
bright eyes upon his face, told stories, and explained
pictures, and answered difficult questions in a manner
that the people who thought him stern would not
have recognized as his.

Jt was, indeed, a delightful afternoon, but it had
to come to an end all too soon—like most delightful
things. Its pleasures, and the expectation of her
father’s and Geoffrey’s return the next day, and—
joy of joys!—the hoped-for drive to Heresford on
Saturday, excited Sylvia’s lively brain, and as Nurse
helped her to undress she chattered like a young
sparrow of Mr. Evelyn and his books, and Mrs.
Barker’s beautiful tea and her own part in dispen-
sing it,

But, alas! the next day, the day which was to be
made so happy by the return of her father and brother,
the day before the one settled for the drive to Heres-
ford, Sylvia came to grief again over her sums. Per-
haps it was just the anticipation of the pleasant pros-
pect before her that excited the child and made her
restless; perhaps Mrs. Brooke, a little flurried by the
departure from the usual placid course of her daily
life, involved in her having arranged to drive to Win-
-ston in the afternoon to make calls there and after-
THE BROKEN PROMISE. 4]

wards fetch her husband and son from the station,
was even more ready than usual to feel irritated by
any inattention, real or fancied, on Sylvia’s part;
perhaps both causes combined to produce the result;
but anyhow the result was that Sylvia grew first
hopelessly muddled over what her mother reasonably
enough called “a sum in simple addition a baby might
have done,” and then, under Mrs. Brooke’s irritable
rebukes, sullenly silent. At last she was dismissed
to her own little bed-room till dinner-time, with
more of real anger than was often shown by her
mother, whose management was usually conducted
on the plan of fretful complaining against her
stupidity and temper.

When Sylvia reached her own little harbour of
refuge, she flung herself face downwards on her little
white bed and cried with the despairing passion of
grief of childhood. She had intended to be so good—
so very good—all the time Father was away; and now
it was all of no use. There was no pleasure in the
thought of his home-coming with Geoff—he would
hear how naughty she had been, and the drive to
Heresford would be forbidden! And she had promised
him she would be good—and now she had broken her
promise, and he could never trust her again! Amid
all the misery the poor child suffered as she lay weep-
ing’on her bed, that thought ached the worst. “Bea
good girl while I am away, Sylvia dear,” he had said
42 . SYLVIA BROOKE.

to her just before he went, and that was only three
days ago! And now Mamma had spoken to her in a
voice and in words so angry and severe that they had
frightened her. It was no good trying to be good! if
she didn’t try it came to just the same thing. She
did so want Father to have heard how good his Sylvia
had been, because she had promised him she would be
—and now! ‘Dear Father!” sobbed the poor child to
herself, with passionate remorseful love.

“Miss Sylvia,” said Nurse’s voice beside her,
“come and wash your hands for dinner. Why, my good
gracious me!” she went on as she caught sight of the
child’s tear-stained face, “whatever are you a crying
about now? You've made yourself a perfect fright!”

Sylvia made no answer; she was tired out with
grief and tears, She meekly washed her face and
hands and put on her clean pinafore under Nurse’s
direction, and went into the nursery to wait till the
dinner-bell rang.

Nurse was young and careless, though very fond of
the baby, her charge, and kind after her way to Sylvia,.
who, as I have said, eased her of many a small duty
by her constant willingness to do anything in her
power for that young hero, her beloved little brother.

“There, now, Miss,” she said; “what a pity it is
you can’t always be as you were last night—so lively
and cheerful! It’s very bad for the eyes to cry so
much, I’ve heard say.” ,
THE BROKEN PROMISE. 43

Sylvia’s lip quivered; but Nurse, going on with—
“There, you just hold Baby a minute while I go
down to see if his broth’s ready,” put her into the low
rocking-chair and Baby on to her lap; and Sylvia, left
alone with the darling, laid her sad face to his bloom-
ing cheek, and kissing and caressing him, and listening
to his baby prattle, some of the soreness went out of
her poor little heart.

Nurse came up presently, having been rather longer
away than was absolutely necessary, and then the bell
rang, and Sylvia sighed and went down to dinner.

Mrs. Brooke had had time to feel that perhaps all
the blame of the morning’s misfortunes could not with
‘entire justice be laid at Sylvia’s door; moreover, the
look of the pale, tear-washed little face with its mourn-
ful dark eyes, roused the motherly feeling that did not
often display itself towards her. As the child took
her accustomed place at the table with a certain diffi-
dent and nervous look which would have gone to Mr.
Brooke’s heart had he seen it, Mrs. Brooke’s voice
was kinder than usual as she said: “Say grace, Sylvia;”
and the childish heart, sensitive to every shade of
change, felt more at ease. She raised her dark eyes
timidly to her mother’s face, but said nothing.

“T see you are sorry for your behaviour this mor-
ning, Sylvia,” said Mrs. Brooke, “we will say no more
about it; try to behave better to-morrow.”

The dark eyes filled again. ‘“ I—am—sorry—most
44 SYLVIA BROOKE.

—hbecause I promised—’ the child began and could
get no farther.

“Well, well,” said her mother hastily, unwilling to
have more tears, “it is all over now; don’t cry any
more about it. Only try to be a good girl.”

So Sylvia gulped down her tears, and ate her dinner
in silence, but a shade less miserable than she had
been.

Dinner had not long been over, Baby had come
downstairs for his daily after-dinner hour, and Sylvia’s
face was beginning to regain more of its brightness,
when in came Miss Milner in her pretty white dress
and broad hat, with a bunch of pink roses at her belt,
and looking so pretty, and like a sweet pink rose her-
self, that the child’s eyes followed all her movements
with even greater admiration than usual.

Miss Milner greeted Mrs. Brooke with her usual
bright, sincere manner, kissed Baby, who made a grab
at her roses but luckily missed them, and then drew
her small admirer towards her with the affection she
always showed her, and giving her a hearty kiss, began:

“Mrs. Brooke, you told me you were going out
calling this afternoon on your way to meet Mr. Brooke
and Geoff, and I know there will not be room for
Sylvia in the dog-cart; so may I borrow her for the
afternoon? Aunt Deborah has an old friend—a lady
she has not met for years—spending the day with her,
and they are so happy talking over old times and
THE BROKEN PROMISE. 45

memories that I am only in the way. I want to spend
a happy afternoon in Farley Wood, and I should enjoy
it so. much more if Sylvia were with me.”

Sylvia’s heart leapt and then fell. An afternoon in
‘the woods with her dear Miss Milner would be un-
speakable delight ; but then—she had been so naughty
at her sums, her mother had been so exceedingly dis-
pleased with her—she would never consent to her go-
ing after that. She looked at her with imploring eyes
while these thoughts rushed through her mind, and
again Mrs. Brooke felt a slight pang of something like
remorse.

“Well I don’t know,” she began, and hesitated—
“Sylvia has been a very naughty girl to-day (Sylvia’s
heart sank down and down); but—well, she promises
me to do better to-morrow, and on that condition I
will allow her to go with you, Betty.”

“Oh, thank you, Mamma! thank you!” cried the
little girl with light breaking all over her face; “may
I go upstairs and put on my things now?”

Permission given, Sylvia ran upstairs to get ready,
while Mrs. Brooke and Betty Milner chatted with
each other, and made smaller talk still for the baby.

“How pretty you look to-day, Betty!” said Mrs.
Brooke. “Oh dear! I wish Sylvia had your colouring.”

“My colouring!” laughed the girl “Why, Mrs.
Brooke, I have nothing to boast of compared to your
own (this was not in fact so, for Miss Milner’s dark

sie


46 SYLVIA BROOKE.

eyebrows and lashes and golden-brown hair gave her
a great advantage over Mrs. Brooke’s uniform fairness)
—iine is nothing to boast of compared to your own;
and as to Sylvia, she will be a brilliant beauty in a
few years’ time—you'll be so proud of her you won't
know what to do—when I shall be a poor fading drab
uninteresting creature that people will say could never
have been thought even pretty!”

“How you exaggerate, dear!” said Mrs. Brooke;
“but it is so pleasant to see young folks so light-
hearted—it goes off soon enough, goodness knows.”

She sighed gently like one oppressed with cares.

Mrs. Brooke possessed an excellent husband, fine
and healthy children, a good income, a comfortable
house, and indeed as many comforts as woman could
desire; but, like many another matron, she laboured
under the impression that no unmarried person knew
anything of the real troubles or difficulties of life, and
she was wont to discourse movingly to girls on this
subject.

Miss Milner, whose own distant home was a not
very happy or congenial one, with an irascible father
and a jealous stepmother but little older than herself,
and whose holiday visits to her aunt, Mrs. Fane, were
not altogether delightful, felt some half- resentful
amusement at her implied freedom from all care; but
she only laughed in answer, and asked at what time
Sylvia must be back.
IN FARLEY Woop. 47

“Well,” said Mrs. Brooke, “the time we shall get
home is not quite certain, for I am not quite sure that
John may not have something to do in the town on
his way from the station. But anyhow she had better
be in by six; her father would be put out if she were
not here to welcome him—you know he makes such a
ridiculous fuss about her—and we can’t be back before
that, I should think.”

CHAPTER IV,
IN FARLEY WOOD.

S Miss Milner and Sylvia walked through the
village street, which lay sleeping in the after-
noon sunshine of a beautiful autumn day, the child
was very silent. Glad as she was to have been per-
mitted the pleasure, delighted as she felt at the
prospect of a whole afternoon in the lanes and woods
with her dear Miss Milner, the pleasure was damped
by one little regret. Her mother, in giving her per-
mission, had spoken of her naughtiness in the mor-
ning, and Sylvia's sensitive heart was troubled at the
thought of Miss Milner’s knowing it. She did so
like Miss Milner to be fond of her—she did so hope
that the knowledge of her bad behaviour would make
no difference in her love.
48 SYLVIA BROOKE,

The first sight of the little girl’s face had been quite
enough to tell her friend that something had gone
wrong, and she had often enough heard Mrs. Brooke’s
complaints of Sylvia’s stupidity and obstinacy to be
aware that the child was not seldom in disgrace; but
she felt it wiser and kinder to ignore the tale the
dark eyes with their traces of recent tears told until
she discovered if Sylvia would be helped most by
speech or by silence.

So they walked through the village, and then
turned into the deep-cut lane which led to Farley
Wood—a lane where the trees formed an arch which
let the sun through in lines and spots broken by
quivering shadows.

It was a lovely day in the beginning of October,
warm almost as summer, and yet with that slight
briskness in the air which sets the blood leaping.
Here and there in the hedge a late wild strawberry
showed its crimson knob, and a few blackberries were
still hanging to the brambles, a glory now of purple,
brown, and crimson leaves. The briony berries were
burning red, and the dog-wood and wild guelder-rose
showed their clusters of vivid scarlet. In the woods
the trees were putting on their livery of orange and
crimson and russet, and here and there a scarlet
maple stood up like a pillar of fire.

Very few words passed between the girls; Sylvia
put her hand through Betty’s arm and pressed
IN FARLEY WOOD. 49

herself against her as they loitered on their way, but
it was not until they reached a gate along the lane—a
gate which was a favourite resting-place of theirs—
that they began to talk in earnest.

From this gate, lying in the wide valley beyond,
they could see the town of Winston, floating, it
almost seemed, in the magic haze of distance in the
October sunshine. The tall spire of the abbey
church stood up above the mist, and there came to
them from it the faint sweet sound of the bells for
which it was famous.

“Listen, Sylvia!” said Miss Milner softly; and they
stood leaning on the gate, the girl’s heart and the
child’s each answering after its kind to the far-off
music.

Miss Milner’s heart must have been full of some
sweetness of its own, for the blue eyes grew soft and
dreamy, and a little smile crept round her lips, and
the pink roses in her cheeks deepened.

Suddenly she heard a sort of gasp by her side, and
looking at Sylvia, saw she was crying. Her kind
arms were round the child in a moment.

“What is it, darling? What has gone wrong?” she
whispered tenderly; and Sylvia sobbed out:

“T didn’t want you to know I was naughty! You
won't care about me now, and—”

“Not care about you, Sylvia! Why, you know I

love you dearly, and always shall! There, dear, don’t
(489) D
- 50 SYLVIA BROOKE,

cry about it. Come inside the gate and sit down and
tell me all about it.”

She led the poor child into the pleasant meadow
beyond the gate, and there Sylvia told her tale. of
childish grief and remorse, lying with her face hidden
in her friend’s lap,

She told how she did try very often, but she could
not understand about sums, and then Mamma said she
was obstinate, and then she (Sylvia) grew angry and
naughty, and would not try any more. And with
still deeper grief and remorse she went on to tell how
she had promised Father she would be good all the
time he was away, and he had said if she kept her
promise he would drive her to Heresford on Saturday;
and now she had been naughtier than ever to-day,
and she certainly would not be allowed to go; and
besides—worst of all—Father would think she had
not really tried to keep her promise at all.

“T don’t think so, Sylvia,” said Miss Milner, gently
smoothing the dark head in her lap; for Miss Milner
was quick-sighted enough to have long ago discovered
that Sylvia’s love for her father was fully returned.
“T don’t think so, indeed, dear. Your father will be
sorry that you have not kept your word, but I am
quite sure he will know you tried to keep it.”

“Do you think so—really, truly?” asked the child,
raising her head and fixing her dark eyes entreatingly
on her friend.
IN FARLEY WOOD. 51

“Really and truly, Sylvia, I am quite sure he will,
and love his little girl all the more for having even
tried to do right. Why, Sylvia, we all do wrong at
times; I know I do often enough. But I hope you
don’t intend to leave off loving me, do you?”

“*No, no!” cried the child, seizing her hand and
squeezing it against her tear-stained little cheek. “TI
do love you so!—and so does Mr. Evelyn—he said go.”

The pink roses in Miss Milner’s cheek turned to
damask, and there came the sweetest smile round her
pretty mouth.

“Did he?” she said. ‘Well, then I have at least
two—” and left her speech unfinished.

“Sylvia,” she began again, and seemed to be going
to say something more. ‘“ No—nothing,” she added,
and gave Sylvia a very tender kiss,

“Now, dear,” she said, “don’t make yourself un-
happy any more; let us get on to Farley Wood and
rest there. I have brought a story-book with me, and
when we are tired of wandering about and talking, I
will read you the prettiest story I can find in it.”

Sylvia’s face brightened under her friend’s bright
words. She dearly loved a story, and many a happy
half-hour had she spent out-of-doors, lying with her
head in Miss Milner’s lap, her ears drinking in every
word that fell from her lips, and her dark eyes fixed
on the reader’s face with constant admiration.

By and by from the deep lane they turned into the
52 SYLVIA BROOKE,

woodland path that led into Farley Wood, and follow-
ing it among the trees came to the spot which was
their favourite resort. Here, in an open grass-grown
space, was a spring, famous among the country-folk
for the great purity of its water. -Long ago it had
been fenced about with a low brick wall, a mass now
of ivy, wild geranium, and moss; a bucket hung
within by an iron chain, and a tin cup was attached to
a nail in the wall, that so the thirsty wayfarer might,
after raising the bucketful of pure ice-cold water, have
the means of drinking a portion of it with ease and
comfort.

Miss Milner and Sylvia seated themselves upon the
sweet dry grass by the wall, and leaning against the
ivy-covered brickwork, rested from their walk and
basked in the mellow afternoon sunshine, filled with
that sense of sweet indolence and content of which a
wood in autumn knows the secret so well. A pied’
wagtail alighted almost at their feet, and, unabashed
by their silent presence, made his little quick runs
with accompanying flirtings of his long tail: Then a
robin perched on a bough close by and sang them his
song of cheerful sentiment, while a little dusty bright-
eyed lizard slipped out of the grass so close to Sylvia
that it had run over her hand before it knew where
it was.

Tt was all so sweet and peaceful and beautiful that
the soreness in the child’s heart insensibly died away
IN FARLEY WOOD, 53

under the touch of the great Mother Nature’s hand.
Miss Milner’s assurance of her father’s trust in her had
consoled her immensely, and the woods did the rest;
so that presently, at the sight of a pitched battle
between two sparrows over a fallen seed, her clear
childish laugh rang out among the trees, and Miss
Milner, awakened from a daydream—a pleasant one,
to judge by her happy look—and catching sight of
the recovered brightness of the little girl’s face,
laughed too from pure gaiety of heart.

“Tow lovely it all is, isn’t it?” she said. “And yet
how few people one ever meets in the woods! Sylvia,
would you like the story now, or do you like best just
to sit still and do nothing?”

“The story, please,” said Sylvia, who was not yet
old enough to feel the whole charm of silent absorp aon
in Nature’s doings.

Miss Milner drew a little book from her pocket,
and began to turn over its leaves.

“T wonder which one you would like best?” she
said,

“J daresay I should like them all best,” said
Sylvia.

Miss Milner laughed.

“Here is one about woods,” she said; “that seems
appropriate to-day, doesn’t it?” and Sylvia, settling
herself comfortably against the wall, her eyes fixed on
Miss Milner’s face, the girl began:
54 SYLVIA BROOKE.

THE SECRET OF THE Woops.

In a country so far away that few ever find it, and
yet so near to some of us that it needs but a step
forward to reach it, in the very midst of a great forest
of fir-trees, there once stood a little hut, so hidden
amongst the trunks and so like them in colour and
appearance that it would have needed a keen eye to
discover it.

Cushions of soft green moss and yellow stone-crop
decked its roof, and to its old walls clung tufts of
wild geranium, brightening them with its green leaves
and pink blossoms, and shedding its wholesome fra-
grance into the warm air until the waning year,
when the vivid crimson of its autumn foliage glowed
and burned like a flame.

Around the hut the tall fir-trees stood straight and
strong, as if to guard it, their dark heads making a
canopy for shade in the noonday heat or for shelter
in rough weather; their trunks glowing red in the
evening light, while their fallen needles made a soft
and Peratne carpet around it from year’s end to
year’s end.

Here and there amongst the firs other trees showed
their bright verdure; the graceful birch with its silver
- stem and drooping fountains of foliage stood in a
green space apart, or the oak-tree put forth bud and
IN FARLEY WOOD. 55

leaf, and saw its acorns form and ripen and fall,
undisturbed but by the leaping squirrel.

In this quiet place Nature held sway unmolested,
and there were none to look upon her ways but one
who dwelt in the little hut, and he was but a child..

How long he had lived there, or how he came there
he knew not; but it had been his shelter ever since he
could remember, and he knew and wished for no
other. The forest, so vast that in all his wanderings
he had never neared its limits, was his home, the
home of his heart; its fruits gave him food when he
was hungry, its silver springs water to quench his
thirst, and the wild creatures of the wood were his
playmates and companions.
. The squirrel would leap upon his shoulder and brush

his cheek with its bushy tail, the birds came to his
hand for food or gently pecked at him to attract his
notice, and the shy field-mice played their pretty antics
around him as fearless of him as of the tall tree beneath
which he sat, a charmed spectator of all that beautiful
wild woodland life; while overhead—loud or low, soft
or strong, now a gentle sighing and anon a wild moan-
ing—sang for ever the voice of the wind through the
fir-trees, the eternal song of the woods.

And as day by day went on, and month by month,
and year by year, that song that is the voice of silence
was but more and more beloved of him, and he was
content to listen entranced and happy, until—slowly,
56 SYLVIA BROOKE,

slowly—a thought woke in his heart—far away at first,
and only a dream-thought—that the lonely and beloved
woods held, hidden from mankind, but yet perchance
to be discovered by some one happy man, a secret—
the supreme secret it might be, the key to unlock the
mysteries of life and death, and make of the universe
one vast harmony.

And the dream-thought grew and grew until it
alone was real, and all else a dream; and day by day
and night by night he haunted the woods, longing
with passionate desire to wring from them their mean-
ing and the clue to their language, which must surely
come at last to ears opened by such worship as his.
As he stood motionless among the tall trees, in their
shadow, while their high heads bent and swayed one
towards another in the sunshine, his heart was full of
a wild delight in their beauty and the music of the
wind sighing through their branches. The wonderful
carpet of verdure and fallen pine needles at his feet;
the green alleys filled with the glow of the golden
sunshine and pierced by its shafts; the songs of the
birds; the soft, swift rustle of the mouse among the
undergrowth ; the quick leap of the squirrel from bough
to bough overhead; the varied glory of the butterfly’s
wing, and the shining mail and glancing gauze of the
dragon-fly ;. above all, the moon riding high in the
heavens and irradiating the silent woods with her
beams, all mingled in his longing, and gave strength
IN FARLEY WOOD, 57

to it; but it was the voice of the woods, the song of
the wind amongst them that he knew held the heart
of the secret—its supreme revelation. Nevertheless
he listened and longed in vain, though there were times
when he felt himself so near it that it seemed the next
moment—nay, the moment itseli—must make it: his—
when it seemed that the song must take words for his
straining ears. Then once more it eluded him, and
was but the voice of the wind among the trees.

So the days went on and he was a man, and his
heart grew hot and impatient within him, and he said
to himself that his old love, the woods of his birth,
had deceived him; either they did not hold the great
secret at all, or they refused to part with it. Well, he
would go elsewhere and seek it. The woods were wide,
so wide that he had till now thought of them as limit-
less, and it would be a far journey to their edge, but
some day—he did not know when—he would follow
some woodland path to its end and find what lay
beyond, But he felt a traitor while he thought these
thoughts. Many atime the charm of the woods came
over him again, and he wondered at himself for a while
that he should have a wish to leave the beloved haunts
of all his life; but the spell was broken and again he
would fly from the beauty he had loved, and throwing
himself on his couch in the dim hut, lie tossing and
miserable with heartaching for he knew not what,

When these moods were on him, the woodland
58 SYLVIA BROOKE.

creatures, his old playmates, shrank away from him,
doubting and alarmed, as if they understood something
of his mind, and felt the tie between him and them
was loosening.

Then, at last, one night after a day of helpless long-
ing and misery—one cloudy night when the moon was
away, and when he supposed that the denizens of the
wood, all but the wakeful owl and bat, were sleeping,
and naught but the tall trees would witness his flight
—he softly opened the door of the hut and stepped out
into the darkness. As the door fell to noiselessly a
sudden chill and fear fell upon him as of something
lost or gone for ever, and he turned as if to re-enter.
If a bird had chirped or a mouse squeaked at that
moment, he would have laid his hand once more upon
the latch; but all was silent, and he turned again and
set forth upon his way.

The night was dark and the forest paths narrow
and difficult with their overarching trees and dense
undergrowth, and he knew the distance to be very
great, though its actual length he had never learned.

How was it then that so few steps brought him into
a track he had never noticed before? How did it
come to pass that this track led him so swiftly and so
easily into an open space where few trees were, and:
whence it seemed to him in the summer darkness that
he was looking upon a great plain?

He walked forward a few more steps and then
IN FARLEY WOOD. 59

turned to cast a farewell glance upon his woods; the
darkness was thinning before the coming dawn, but
no wood was to be seen. The increasing light fell
upon him, a solitary figure in a wide landscape of hill
and valley, and on the horizon the towers of a great
city.

Then his heart leapt up with exultation and longing
for the new life before him, and with one look back
towards where the vanished forest had been, he set
7 his face towards the city.

In the great city of towers and palaces, amongst the
young men and maidens, in the midst of song and
laughter and music, his soul on fire with the glory of life
and his eyes filled with its beauty, dwelt the child of
the woods. Day by day he rose eager for his draught
of life and learning, and music ahd beauty; night by
night he lay down to dream it over again and long for
the morrow. How far off and dim seemed now the
old woodland days—the little hut, the wind’s song in
the trees, the old passionate desire to pierce the heart
of the mystery they guarded! He laughed gaily now
when he remembered all this—gaily, but with a tender
gaiety, as we laugh over the remembered follies and
fancies of our childhood. Could it be really he, the
darling of the city, the prince among his fellows,
the admired of all, who had grown to manhood
solitary in that humble hut amid the trees; whose
60 SYLVIA BROOKE,

most intimate companions had been the wild creatures
of the wood; who had felt that there, in the solemn
forest, under the moonlight, lurked the great secret?
How far away and foolish it seemed! Why, there
was no secret after all but to drink the cup of life to
the very dregs, to live and enjoy every hour—every
moment—to the utmost, to seize the passing joy, to
make the fleeting hour one’s own!

But sometimes, at night, when the wind was high
and the stars blazing and flickering in the deep vault of
space, and he could not sleep for the surge of life in
his heart, he would throw open his casement and lean
far out, gazing over the level plains. Then it seemed
to him that very far away on the horizon’s verge, so
dim and indistinct that he knew not if it were a reality
or only a shadowy illusion, he caught a glimpse once
more of the forest he knew of old lying sombre and
mysterious under the sparkling stars; and into his soul
there crept again for a little space so vivid a memory
of that old love and longing, that the life of the city
fell away from him like a dream, and nothing was true
but the old life and love.

But the feeling passed, and when morning came and
woke him afresh, the old life was once more the
dream and the new the reality.

So for many a day he lived and laughed, until at
length the life of mirth and dance and song, of rose-
strewn paths and the golden wine-cup, began to pall
IN FARLEY WOOD. 61

upon him and he grew weary of it all; and the secret
was still unsolved. The woods were vanishedfor in
the broad daylight never a hint of them showed upon
the horizon—and the road to them he did not know,
even if he had wished to find it; and that he did not
in spite of his weariness, except at passing moments
when night brought their distant outline, or the vision
of it, to his wakeful eyes.

No; the city was his home now, and in it he would
remain. And so he lived on there, while one by one
the reckless companions of his youth fell like himself
into gravity and weariness, or dropped out of know-
ledge and were seen no more, leaving no trace in the
gay city with its castles and towers, which forgot them
each one as he went.

And he loved a noble lady of the land and laid his
heart at her feet, and when she smiled and accepted
the royal gift like a queen he felt he had found the
secret at last, and that all his days until this supreme
one had been waste and weariness. But the noble
lady was false; false her heavenly eyes, and false her
smiling mouth, and she gave him back his heart nigh
broken with despairing pain, and the secret was still
unsolved.

Many a day he mourned silent and alone. Then he
arose and cried to friendship to heal his wounds; and
he chose one from among his fellows to be the friend
of his heart, his guide and example, and together they
62 SYLVIA BROOKE.

followed learning and wisdom, and gathered strength
and knowledge from all they touched, and in high con-
verse and mutual love and trust they walked amongst
men, doing good to all, the while their names grew
sweet in all mouths,

But the most faithful friendship cannot shield the
beloved from the dart of Death.

His friend lay dead before him, and pray and
entreat he ever so urgently and tenderly, answer was
there none;—and the dark grave hid the secret well.

Love and friendship both gone and life made empty
by their loss, he fled from amongst men now, and
building himself a solitary tower on the outskirts of
the great city, he lived alone with knowledge, seeking
if he might so forget the faded glories of his youth—
the baffled hopes and longings of his manhood. There
he lived and studied; pursuing nature to her inmost
recesses where science weighs the very stars in the
heavens. And science told him many a secret, but
never the supreme one for which he had yearned in
the woods of his birth, and for all his wisdom there
came no more to him the old sense of something to
be discovered—the key that would unlock the whole
mystery of life,

So the days and months and years went by again,
and youth was long long past and his face towards the
setting sun.

Then, one clear night, as ie sat in his tower watch-
IN FARLEY WOOD. 63

ing the full moon rise and put out the stars, his back
towards the city and its shining lights, his face towards
the wide plain, something, some faint echo of days
long past, plucked at his heart-strings, making them
vibrate as they had not done for many a long day. :
A strange yearning for he knew not what, a blind cry
for something but half understood, shook his very
being. ,

He rose and leaned far out from the casement.

Before him the moon’s silver disk swam upwards
into the clear sky. Was it the same moon that had
swayed his childish heart—the moon he had loved in
the woods? The woods!—ah! where were they!—
where and how could they be found if one had a mind
to seek them? Were they a reality? Had they ever
existed, or were they but a childish dream—was all
life but a dream? And the secret—the secret that
had haunted him so long—was that but the dream of
a dream }

A soft wind sighing fanned his cheek, the moon’s
rays silvered the broad plain, and somewhere near by
the tower’s foot a nightingale began to sing. With
the song there sprang up in his soul a mighty rush of
remorseful desire for the old woodland life, the silence
and the music of the trees, the old worship of the
beauty and the search for the mystery it both ex-
pressed and hid.

Then with a low cry of longing he laid his forehead
64 SYLVIA BROOKE.

upon his clasped hands, and a tear—unwonted visitor
to his quiet eyes—fell over them. When he looked up
once more the moon had risen high in the heavens and
the nightingale had hushed her song for a time. He
gazed across the spreading plain, lying in a haze of
silvered gray in the moonlight, towards the far-off
horizon; and as he looked—slowly, slowly, and leagues
away on the very verge where earth and sky met—
there grew into shadowy form a mighty forest his
heart recognized with a leap of joy and welcome.

Delaying not a moment, he descended his tower,
turned at its foot to wave a last farewell to the sleep-
ing city where so much of his life had passed and lay
buried, and setting forth across the plain began his
journey homeward to the land of his birth.

It was a long and toilsome journey this time, but
hope kept his heart up, and the thought of all the
woods might hold for him.

At last, one peaceful evening, as the sun’s last rays
shed a golden radiance on hut and flower, he raised his
eyes from long pondering to see before him a dense
wall of foliage, a forest of dark pine and fir—the goal
of his long journey. With a cry of joy he made a
step forward and was once more in the heart of his
native woods!

So again the little hut sheltered him, the clear
spring gave him water, the wild fruits food, and weary
and worn he returned to nature to be comforted and
IN FARLEY WOOD. 65:

soothed as she had tended and protected his happy
childhood.
Once more he lay at the foot of the giant fir-trees
and heard the magic music of the wind in their highest
branches. Once more he watched the unfolding of
leaf and blossom, the life of tree and herb, and listened
to that charmed silence of the woods which is but the
more intense from its myriad voices. The shy squirrel
as of old sped from branch to branch, until, embold-
ened by his motionless attitude, it ventured near him
and looked curiously at him with its bright eyes. The
song the robin sang to his mate might have been the
very same song, sung by the very same bird, that had
charmed his boyhood. Time and change lost their
meaning as he listened; and as the shades of evening:
fell, and twilight silenced the songs of day, the night-
ingales, whose notes had seemed less rare among them,,.
began their solitary melodies and made night musical.
So day by day he haunted the woods with the pas-
sionate love of his boyhood increased tenfold, and day-
by day grew into greater intensity his belief that here.
at last, after all that had come and gone—loves and.
hates, and hopes and fears, and disappointments and.
failures—joys and sorrows alike grown shadowy now,
he should find the secret of life, that mysterious secret.
which should reveal the inner harmony of the universe,
and which every pulse of his being had strained te.

discover.
(489 ) A BE
66 SYLVIA BROOKE.

Some day—somehow—he knew not when, or after
what strange fashion—the mysterious whisper of the
trees to one another would become plain to him, the
secret would be his for evermore, and he should see
into the very heart of life and count its beatings at
their.source.

And the days went by and the love and the yearn-
ing grew greater; but the forest had not spoken, nor
the spirit of the woods taken on any visible shape to
satisfy his eyes wasted with the fire of his great
desire.

It was midsummer now, and the sun’s rays fell all
day long in bright shafts and gleams through the
green roof upon the earth beneath, where nature’s new
beauty was fast concealing the faded record of what
had been last year’s fresh young life,

At night the waxing moon sent her silver beams
amongst the tall trunks, and looked down upon the
solitary worshipper with her gentle radiance as though
she pitied him. For now he lay pale and wan beneath
the trees, all his life in the hollow eyes which still be-
sought of his ancient love, the woods, that their secret
might be his before he died.

At dawn, while the moon paled in the brightening
sky, there came a little breeze, a soft wind which woke
the trees to a lazy whispering.

“Tt is coming now!” he said, and he sat up with
wide eyes and straining ears to listen,




IN FARLEY WOOD. 67

But the whisper died away, and presently the sun
was high in the heavens once more and the secret a
secret still.

And the sun sank and sank in the glowing west,
leaving a paling glory behind wherein shone the lamp
of the evening star to herald the radiance of the full
moon. Before her coming star after star brightened
slowly in the darkening sky, and when her first beams
silvered the soft gloom of the woods, and the bats
flitted noiselessly in and out of her rays, and the trees
began again their rustling talk, once again he said:

‘Surely I shall find it now!”

But the soft voices of the night, though they kept
their old mysterious enchantment for him, made
nothing clear but his own vain longings.

At last there came a day when the little breeze
wooed the trees at dawn, and the sun rose and gilded
the topmost spires of the trees and woke the woodland
life to gladness; but he who had loved Nature, and
sought her secret with unquenchable devotion and
desire, lay weak and weary beneath the trees, and
lifting his wasted eyes to all that beauty sighed
softly:

“O woods I have loved, I die of my vain long-
ing!”

And the sun ran his course through the long day,
and his beams fell lovingly on the weary worshipper,
but could not bring back the light to his tired eyes;
68 SYLVIA BROOKE.

the squirrel ventured boldly to his very hand, and
the birds twittered close around him to bring a wan
smile to his white lips. Ever and anon a little wind
arose and the trees whispered overhead. Then some-
thing of the old passion shone in his eyes, but it
passed, and he only sighed wearily.

Evening came and the star with its lamp, and then
the moon swam up into the sky and silvered the
woods once more. Airy forms like embodied mist
seemed to flit in and out amongst the trunks of the
trees, and from time to time a light laugh like an
echo of elfin revelry woke the silence as if to mock
him.

Suddenly he sat up, all the fire of his old desire, all
the ardour of his search, all the passion of his love
in his hollow eyes—wide open now and shining with
expectancy—his ears astrain and his lips apart.

It was coming at last! His long seeking was well-
nigh over now—the supreme secret would be his
before he died!

All around -him the tees bent and swayed as if to
embrace him, while amongst their branches the soft
night wind rose and fell; and as he listened there
came an ineffable joy into his pale face and shining
eyes.

Was yonder shadowy form coming nearer and
nearer in the radiant moonlight the very spirit of -
IN FARLEY WOOD. 69

the woods grown visible at last to his longing eyes,
and charged to deliver the great secret to his longing
ears }

With a wild cry of supreme delight he arose and
fell at the Shadow’s feet.

He ee care = secret now, but the =e smil-
ing lips held it fast; and the moon faded, and the
sun rose and dried ine dew, and the wind and the
trees sang and sighed their old mysterious song for
the closed eyes and deaf ears of their lover, to charm
his last sleep as they had charmed his first.

Sylvia’s eyes had grown large and dreamy as she
listened, and when the story was finished she was
silent for a while.

“Did you like that story?” asked Miss Milner.

The child sighed,

“Yes, very much,” she said; “but I wanted him
to find it!”

“So he did, dear,” answered Miss Milner; “so we
all shall some day.”

The child knitted her brows.

“But what was it?” she asked, “TI want to know
what it was,”

“Ah, Sylvia! I don’t know myself; but we shall
discover some day.”

Sylvia still looked puzzled.
70 SYLVIA BROOKE,

“IT wish—” she began, and then suddenly breaking
off with childish impulsiveness, “Oh, there’s some
one coming along the path!” she cried. “Oh! could
it be Father?”

“Father is not to be home till six o’clock at
earliest,” said Miss Milner with a funny little smile.

“Oh, it’s Mr. Evelyn!” exclaimed Sylvia; “I know
his brown hat—I’m so glad! Mr. Evelyn! Mr. Evelyn!
we're here!” she called as she started off to run to-
wards the doctor.

Miss Milner stood quite still and said nothing at
all, but she did not seem as much surprised as Sylvia
was; perhaps because the happy event was not quite so
unexpected on her part. She smiled as Sylvia, cling-
ing to Mr, Evelyn’s arm, brought him up in triumph
to her side; but she did not shake hands with him,
which Sylvia thought rather odd.

‘How did you know where to find us?” she asked.

“Why, you told me yourself this morning,” he
answered; and she laughed merrily.

“Did I?” she said.

‘Am J in the way?” he asked. “TI will go away if
Tam.”

“You must ask Sylvia,” said the girl.

“Sylvia never finds me in the way; do you,
_ Sylvia?”

“Oh, that’s not fair! as if she could say yes when
you ask her yourself! Sylvia, listen to me and don’t
IN FARLEY WOOD. 71

mind what he says;—don’t you have a great deal too
much of Mr. Evelyn?”

The child had been listening to the talk between
her two companions, a little mystified by its tone, but
this question was quite intelligible to her and she had
no doubt whatever about her answer to it.

“Tf I saw Mr. Evelyn every moment of the day,”
she said fervent “T should never have too much of
him.”

Mr. Evelyn was not so unmindful of his little
friend’s constant affection and loyalty as not to re-
ward her with a very kind look and “Thank you, my
dear little Sylvia,” before he turned again to Miss
Milner and said:

“Ah, Betty! I wish you could say as much.”

Betty laughed again her gay sweet laugh.

“Don’t flatter yourself with that idea,” she said.

“Why won’t you make a poor fellow a pretty
speech for once in a way?” said Mr. Evelyn; “it
wouldn’t cost you anything, and it would please him.”

“Because, William Evelyn—as Aunt Deborah
would say—you, like all the young people of the
. present day, have such a very good opinion of your-
self that there is no need to add to your conceit.”

She looked at him with sweet impertinence as she
spoke.

“Do you really think that, Betty?” he said a little
wistfully.
72 SYLVIA BROOKE.

The girl’s expression changed swiftly.

“No, I dowt,” she said very gravely and earnestly.
“T don’t. Why, Will, don’t you know that I wouldn’t
have you different from what you are for anything in
the wide world? Don’t you know that I don’t make
you pretty speeches because if I once began I should
not know where to end?”

“Betty, my darling—” began the doctor; but she
stopped him, laughing, with her pretty: hand on his
outstretched arm.

“William Evelyn, you forget we are not alone.
What would Aunt Deborah say?”

“JT don’t care what all the Aunt Deborahs in the
world say!” he exclaimed; “but never mind, I can
“wait now.”

“Well, let go my hand anyhow, and tell me what
time it is. I’m sure it must be getting late, and
Sylvia must be at home by six.”

The doctor obeyed.

“Half-past five,” he said; “look, the sun is quite
-set.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the young lady; “we
have only just time to get back before six. Sylvia,
‘dear, where is that book? Oh, I put it in my pocket,
-of course! How thoughtless of me not to remember
about the time before. It’s all your fault, Will, you
tiresome man,”

“It won't take us half an hour to get back,” said
IN FARLEY WOOD. 73

the doctor; “and you'll have my valuable assistance.
Come along, Sylvia, take my hand and I'll help you
over the ground.”

The little girl had been looking from one to the
other of her friends a little puzzled by their talk and
behaviour, which seemed somehow new to her. But
she took Mr. Evelyn’s hand with the feeling of
contented safety his presence always gave her, and
the three set off.

Sylvia was aware that as Miss Milner walked on
the other side of Mr. Evelyn he drew her hand through
his arm and held it in his. She looked up with an
involuntary glance of inquiry in her eyes,

“Tell her, Will,” said Miss Milner; “I thought I
could, but somehow—I couldn’t manage it.”

“Sylvia,” began the doctor, “you love Miss Milner,
I know—you have told me so often. Well, would
you be glad to hear that she is coming to live in
Woodleigh—not only to stay at Mrs. Fane’s every
year ?”

“Oh, are you—are you really?” cried the child with
sparkling eyes. ‘Oh, I am so glad! Isn’t Mrs, Fane
glad?” ;

“Well,” answered Mr. Evelyn, “I hope she is.
But, Sylvia, Miss Milner is not going to live with
Mrs. Fane; she is going to be much nearer to you.
Wouldn't you like to have her near you—neat door to
you?”
74, SYLVIA BROOKE.

“Next door!” said the child with eyes full of wonder.
“Next door—at your house?”

“Yes, at my house. Sylvia, she is going to be my
wife, and we are all going to be so happy. Are you
not glad, dear?”

“Oh, yes! yes!” cried the little girl, so excited with
the news that she was fain to stop and throw herself
upon Miss Milner to kiss and caress her.

Miss Milner held the child in her arms and returned
her kisses tenderly. “I knew I could trust to Sylvia’s
welcome,” she said.

“Well, Sylvia,” said the doctor, haven’t you kept a
kiss for your old playfellow?” and Sylvia tore herself
from Betty’s arms to throw herself into Will’s. —

“You are the very first person we have told, Sylvia,”
said Mr. Evelyn, “and you shall be the very first
person that comes to tea with us—with Betty and .
me.”

“Oh, how nice! how delicious! Oh, do be married
as soon as ever you can!” cried Sylvia, skipping from
pure delight.

They both laughed.

“Tt can’t be too soon for me, Sylvia,” said Mr.
Evelyn; and so talking and laughing they passed
through the village and reached Sylvia’s home.

“We're not too late after all,” said Miss Milner;
“the stable gates are shut. Make haste in, dear, and
be ready to welcome your father as soon as he arrives.
TEDDY’S DOINGS. 75

Good-night, dear, good-night!” and with loving fare-
wells to both her kind friends Sylvia ran into the
house and upstairs to her little bed-room.

A

CHAPTER V.
TEDDY’S DOINGS.

EANWHILE, during Sylvia’s absence, Nurse had
been finding time hang rather heavy on her
hands, First of all, Baby had been fractious over
being dressed for his afternoon airing, and had made
sundry pulls at Nurse’s cherished “fringe,” which she
was in the habit of curling elaborately with a hot iron,
to Baby’s ever-recurring delight in the process. Per-
haps some unformed idea of doing the most unpleasant
thing he could do to her in revenge for her forcing his
unwilling little arms into the sleeves of his pelisse,
led to his pulling the aforesaid fringe, but anyhow
he did so, whereupon Nurse slapped him—not hard
enough to really hurt him, for she was a very kind-
hearted girl in the main and devoted to her nursling;
but the slap offended his dignity and he lamented
loudly, and for a long time would not be comforted
by caresses or coaxing—or even sugar. When he was
at length appeased, and, having vindicated his right to
76 SYLVIA BROOKE,

an opinion, allowed himself to be dressed—as good as
gold, as Nurse said—the afternoon was getting on,
and a special appointment for four o'clock Nurse had
made to meet Susan, Mrs. Burton’s nurse, who was
also to be out with her numerous charges at that hour,
would in all probability fall through, since by this
time Susan must think she was not coming and would
have left the trysting-place. Nurse was much vexed
at the idea, for the subject of the expected discussion
was to have been the merits and “intentions” of a
certain George Tatlock, a young farmer of the neigh-
bourhood, who had given signs of having fallen a
victim to Nurse’s high-coloured comeliness. And if
Susan had really imagined her unable or unwilling
to keep her appointment, the discussion—down to the
slightest detail and up to the most soaring possibili-
ties—of this most interesting theme must he given up
at least till the next day, perhaps longer.

Nurse hurried Baby into his perambulator, and
hastened to the place of meeting; but, alas! her fears
were realized. She waited ten minutes—twenty—
half an hour, with the faint hope that it was Susan
who was late; but no Susan came. Master Teddy
resented the delay, and teased in baby fashion from
time to time to be permitted to get out and walk;
and at last Nurse gave up her hope, and pushed for-
ward in that of meeting her friend returning -by the
same way she had gone. However, Susan must either
TEDDY’S DOINGS. 7

have decided to come home by a different road, or have
originally taken one of the three that led from the .
meeting-place different to that chosen by Nurse, for
they did not meet.

Considering that Baby’s misdemeanours were solely
responsible for the delay which had spoilt her plans,
Nurse was to be commended for not slapping him
again, She did not, though she rattled the perambu-
lator along the road in a way that shook him up some-
what, while it relieved her irritated feelings. Baby
seemed in no way to connect the two ideas in his
mind, however, and prattled to “Nanna” as cheer-
fully and innocently as the jolting left him breath for;
probably he looked upon it as an accident of travel
to which it was beneath his dignity to object.

Nurse had not quite recovered her usual good-
humour when she and her young charge got home.
She was a little rough with him as she took off his
out-of-door garments, while he looked at her with
that infantine surprise at her conduct which is irre-
sistibly conducive to repentance and kisses in the
aggressor. He had probably quite forgotten his own
bad behaviour; but perhaps he remembered Nurse’s
slap, and was prepared to resent a repetition of it.

But Nurse attempted nothing of the kind; she only
laid the tea for him and herself—for Sylvia was to
have hers with Geoffrey at their parents’ dinner on
their return—with more clatter than was absolutely
78 SYLVIA BROOKE,

necessary, and after the meal was over, made her pre-
parations for the child’s bath and undressing ‘without
her usual chatter of loving nonsense to him. The
nursery was dark, for the window was small and of
diamond-paned glass, heavily leaded, and the evening
light was fading. Nurse lighted a couple of candles,
and, putting one on the table and the other on the
chimney-piece, took Baby on her knee and was on the
point of unfastening his white frock, when Ellen, the
housemaid, looked into the room.

“T say, Mary,” she began, “wouldn’t you like to
know who’s in the kitchen?”

“Who?” asked Nurse, a look of intelligence bright-
ening her face. ‘You don’t never mean to tell me
it’s that George Tatlock? The idea of his coming
after me here! Like his impudence!”
her head with affected pride. “Did he ask for me,
Ellen?”

“Why, of course he did, as if you didn’t know
that!” said Ellen, “ Aren’t you coming down to see
him?”

“How can I leave the child?” exclaimed Nurse.
“Tt’s just my luck! Wherever can Miss Sylvia be?
Her Mar ‘Id be very angry if she knew she was out so
late. She'd a taken care of Baby for a minute.”

“Oh, Tl look after him,” answered Ellen good-
naturedly; “he'll be good enough with me, I'll be
bound. Won't you, Baby?”

and she tossed ~
TEDDY'S DOINGS. 79

Baby had been looking on at this colloquy with an
air of the deepest interest, but without making any
remark of his own; but now being directly addressed,
he rubbed his pretty curly head against Nurse’s
shoulder and piped:

“] want Nanna—Nanna not go!”

“T won't be a minute, my blessed pet,” said Nanna,
hugging him to her and covering his fat neck and
arms with kisses, ‘You stay, like a good boy, with
Ellen, and Nanna ‘ll bring him up something nicey-
nicey out of the kitchen. Here, Ellen, take him,”
she went on; “Tl be up again ina minute. But it
does seem a pity to miss him (him meant George Tat-
lock this time) when he’s come a purpose, don’t it?”

The good-natured Ellen assented, and taking Baby
“on her lap set to work to amuse that young gentle-
man to the best of her ability during the “minute” of
Nurse’s proposed absence.

Somehow the minute grew a rather long one; it
lengthened itself so much, indeed, that by degrees
Ellen began to feel a little aggrieved. It was all very
well to be good-natured and offer to take another
person’s work; but then that obliged person ought to
have some little consideration and not keep one all
night waiting for her return. Mary might remember
that she had all her own work to do in the bed-rooms;
and missus would be in a fine way if she found no hot
water in her room on her arrival. Besides, Baby was
80 SYLVIA BROOKE.

growing sleepy, and consequently a little fretful; he
refused to look on Ellen any longer as a sufficient
substitute for his “ Nanna,” for whom he asked every
few minutes in a pathetic voice that threatened a
speedy change into a cry.

Ellen sat on some few minutes longer in that state
of irritation with another which dims one’s own sense
of right, and at last rose hastily, sat Baby on the
floor, and with strict injunctions to him to keep quite
still till she came back, and not touch anything, went
quickly downstairs to interrupt the farewell of Mr.
George Tatlock and the offending Nurse with an angry
reminder that if some people could find time to spend
hours dawdling at the backdoor, she, for her part,
had her work to do, and couldn’t put off doing of it
no longer for no one.

“All right, Ellen,” answered Nurse, “J’m coming.
You needn’t be in such a taking about it. I’m sure I
haven’t been ten minutes.”

The farewells were delayed even after that for a few
moments, and then Nurse came back into the kitchen,
a look of great consequence and satisfied vanity on her
comely face. Ellen, who was still there, in spite of
her pressing need to set about her work, wore an air
of offence; but the sight of her brought back in an
instant to Nurse’s remembrance her ee of her
little charge. ;

“Goodness gracious, Ellen!” she cried, “where’s
TEDDY'S DOINGS. 81

Baby? Is Miss Sylvia come in? You didn’t leave him
by himself, surely?”

“Yes, I did,” answered Ellen a little sulkily; “I
came down to look for you. Bless you! he’s right
enough; he was sitting on the floor as happy as a
king.”

But Nurse had not staid to listen to more; she had
flown upstairs to her forsaken nursling, angry with
Ellen and repenting of her own carelessness.

Meanwhile, Baby; left alone, had at first sat on con-
tentedly enough. Having made an ineffectual attempt
to make a plaything of the soap, which insisted on
slipping out of his dimpled fingers just when he
thought he had made it an easy prey, and then having
turned his attention to an endeavour at unbuttoning
the straps of his little shoes, with a laudable wish to
help in the intricacies of his own toilet, which did not
meet with the success it deserved, he began to look
about him for some fresh and stirring form of amuse-
ment.

Suddenly he caught sight of the very thing he
wanted—something beautiful in itself; for had not
his sleepy eyes watched its wavering brightness night
after night until the tired lids fell over them? and in
addition possessing the charm of.a forbidden pleasure,
for “No, no; Baby must not touch the candle!” was a
saying familiar to his ears.

Baby scrambled to his feet, and seizing the end of
(489) F
82 SYLVIA BROOKE

the table-cloth to help him, in the act, to his great
delight, drew the coveted candle almost to the table’s
edge. A moment more and he had seized it, over-
balanced himself in his eagerness, and fallen on his
back, candle and all.

When Mr. Evelyn and Miss Milner left Sylvia at
the house door she ran at once up into her own little
bed-room, took off her hat, washed her hands,
smoothed her hair, put on her pretty white serge
frock, and then went along the passage to the
nursery, intending to wile away the time until the
return of the dog-cart in looking out for its coming
from the window at which she had sadly watched its
going three days ago. Baby must be in bed by now,
she thought, and Nurse would enforce silence until he
was fast asleep; but she would persuade her to leave
the blind undrawn that she might catch the very first
sight of the carriage as it came through the village.
She had been so happy with her two friends, and Miss
Milner’s kind words had so soothed and comforted the
little girl’s heart in the remorse she felt over the
failure of her promise to her father, that she had
almost forgotten it. But now the thought of it came
back to her, and she sighed. The drive to Heresford
she had so longed for was gone, she felt sure; but if
father would only believe she had really tried to be
a good girl—and Miss Milner had assured her he
TEDDY’S DOINGS. 83

would—she could give up the drive with. compara-
tively little reeret,

Sylvia loitered a little along the passage while these
thoughts passed through her mind, and she had
almost reached the nursery door, when a cry from
behind it—a strange, frightened cry—that seemed to
be in Baby’s voice and yet unlike, made her start
forward, fling open the door, and rush in hastily.

On the floor, by the table from which the cloth had
almost slipped, lay the little brother, the candlestick
beside him, and a quivering tongue of flame creeping
along his white frock,

The child’s heart gave one of those awful leaps that
seem to stop life itself, but she uttered no cry. Some
half-formed memory of stories of danger by fire and
its prevention sprang, under the agony of fear for her
darling Teddy, into full comprehension and action, and
seizing the blanket laid ready by the bath for him to
stand on, she threw it over him, and regardless of his
cries and struggles, pressed it tightly round him until
every particle of flame was extinguished. _

Then the child’s strength and heart failed, and
overcome by the terrible shock and the pain of her
scorched hands, she fell forward across the little
brother whose precious life she had saved without a
thought of her own, pale and senseless.
84 SYLVIA BROOKE.

CHAPTER VL
SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH.

\ RS. BROOKE had spentavery agreeable afternoon.

If she had felt for a moment a slight sensation
of regret with regard to Sylvia before she left home,
and had thought for a moment that she might have
been a little hard on her that morning, it left but
little impression on her mind, accustomed to account
for all failures of patience on her own part, and
inability to “manage” the child, by the often-repeated
excuse of Sylvia’s obstinacy and oddness; so easily do
we find the most excellent excuses for our own short-
comings in those of others.

The day was a delightful one for driving, the horse
as steady as he was spirited, Job a trustworthy whip
—tfor Mrs. Brooke was nervous—and last, but very
far from least, she had on a new bonnet from Paris of
the latest fashion, and which her glass told her was
extremely becoming. Any lady living in a country
village, starting on a round of calls in the neighbour-
ing town, and conscious of so great an advantage in
the matter of millinery, will understand with what
complacency Mrs. Brooke set forth on her drive.

The event did not disappoint her expectation; the
Paris bonnet was an undoubted success. Several of her
SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. 85

lady friends complimented her on it; one, a great
admirer of her pink prettiness, adding that she would
look well in anything, but that in this triumph of the
milliner’s art she was really lovely. And the charms of
the bonnet were more subtly, but perhaps even more
agreeably, testified to by the way in which one or two
other ladies, though silent on its merits, furtively
kept their eyes on it while appearing absorbed in
conversation with its wearer. Mrs. Brooke knew at
such moments, as certainly as if they had told her,
that they were considering the possibility of keeping
its general features sufficiently in their memory to
order something of the same sort at Miss Gunter’s—
the first milliner in Winston. Her pleasure in this
sincerest form of flattery was not diminished by any
fear that Miss Gunter’s efforts would approach in
“style” the Parisian head-gear; and, as we all know,
style is the one mark to be aimed at in millinery.

Mrs. Brooke’s visit had taken so much time, all the
ladies she had called on being at home, that she had ~
at last to hurry to the station to meet her husband
and son. For a wonder the train was exact to its
time, and in a very few minutes the whole party were
in the dog-cart. :

“T must go into the office for half a minute,” said
Mr. Brooke, “just to see if there are any letters of
importance; but I won’t keep you waiting more than
asecond, I'll bring them home to look through.”
86 SYLVIA BROOKE.

He drew up at his office as he spoke and leaped
down.

“Nothing of much consequence,” he said as he
mounted to his seat, and they started again.

When they were out of the town and on the country
road to Woodleigh, and after Mrs. Brooke had asked
all dutiful questions about his mother’s health and
doings, and had listened with motherly tenderness
and admiration to Geoff’s account of his share in the
brief holiday, Mr. Brooke, who had asked how Sylvia
and Teddy were in the first instant of the meeting
with his wife, said suddenly, after being silent for
some moments:

- “T wish I could have taken Sylvia too. My mother
would have been so glad to have her there for a bit,
and it would have done the child good—though I
should miss her sweet face. She must pay her grand-
mother a visit some day soon. By George! Emily,
she'll be the very image of my mother when she’s
her age.”

Now there were two things in Mr. Brooke’s speech
that rendered it not altogether pleasant to his wife;
for, as we know, her husband’s admiration for his
mother was somewhat of a sore point with her, and
his reference to Sylvia’s “sweet face,” which she had
inherited from that mother, was also something of an
offence.

“TI can’t have Sylvia spoiled by spending any length
SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. 87

of time with your mother,” she said coldly.- “I don’t
wish her to have her head turned with flattery, and
petting, and running wild, and then have her back
more tiresome and difficult to manage than ever.
Only to-day she has been as naughty over her lessons
as she well could be (the twinge of remorse Mrs.
Brooke had felt for her own share in Sylvia’s bad
behaviour was quite forgotten, you see, under the
irritation her husband’s -words caused); yes, ex-
tremely naughty. You must speak seriously to her
about it, for she is quite beyond me. If she goes to
your mother to be allowed to do just as she pleases,
there will be no doing anything with her.”

Mr, Brooke slashed at an overhanging bough with
his whip.

“Good heavens, Emily!” he said in a voice that
betrayed strong annoyance, “can’t you let three days
pass without bringing that unfortunate child to grief
over something or other? She’s always in disgrace
about one thing or another.”

“T bringing. her to grief, John!” in a tone of deep
offence; “J bring her to grief, indeed! You know as
well as I do that it is Sylvia’s own ill-temper and
obstinacy that bring her into disgrace. I am sure I
do my very utmost to manage her in the right way,”
she went on plaintively; ‘but it’s no use.”

Mr. Brooke was silent for a moment—perhaps try-
ing to find words to broach a subject hitherto tacitly

1?
88 SYLVIA BROOKE,

avoided between them without rousing his wife’s
sense of injury. He felt it had been a cowardly avoid-
ance on his part, caused by his dislike to “scenes” or
reproaches. Then he said gently:

“Wouldn’t it be possible to try a little love, Emily ?
No, don’t fly out at me; I am not accusing you of
having no love for the child, and I don’t doubt for a
moment you're trying to do your duty by her. But
she’s a loving little soul, God bless her!—as I dis-
covered only too late, to my shame—and I can’t but
believe that if you could give her a little of the love
—the kind of love, I mean—you give Geoff and Teddy,
you'd find her wonderfully amenable to it.”

Mrs. Brooke was silent, and he hoped his words
had made the impression he desired; so, instead. of
leaving them to work, what does the honest man do
but add, perhaps with some vague idea that his wife
was likely to be more moved by outside criticism than
by his own:

“Even my mother noticed when she: was last here
how differently you treated. Sylvia and her brothers.”

Mrs. Brooke actually bristled with indignation.

“TY am deeply obliged to your mother for her inter-
ference with my affairs,” she said in icy tones. ‘So it
was in consequence of your discussions with her over
my conduct that you made this grand’ plan of sending
Sylvia to visit her grandmother! Many thanks for
your kindness; but I prefer to keep Sylvia at home,
SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. 89

where I can save her from Mrs. Brooke’s spoiling,
. although day by day I have to endure the effect yours
has on her.”

“Well, you can congratulate yourself on there being
no chance of her showing any evil effects from yours,
at any rate!” said her husband with biting sarcasm,
and fell silent again, angry with her for what he called
her “hardness”—angry with himself for his want of
tact in bringing his mother’s name into the question.

“Well,” he thought wearily to himself, “I must
give the child a double share of love. But it’s hard
lines for a girl to have to put up with ‘duty’ instead
of love from her own mother. My poor Sylvia!”

Mrs. Brooke did not address her husband again.
She spoke over her shoulder from time to time to
Geoffrey, whe during his parents’ discourse had been
too busy recounting the events of his holiday to Job
to pay any attention to its subject; but to Mr. Brooke
she did not say another word until they drew up at
their own gate, when her frigid “Thank you,” as he
helped her to alight, did not speak of any relaxation
of her sense of offence with him.

The house-door was unfastened, as it. always stood
in that peaceful village, and they entered. The hall
was empty; but Sarah, the parlour-maid, was laying
the table in the dining-room.

“Why, where’s Sylvia?” said her father. “Sarah,
isn’t Miss Sylvia in?”
90 SYLVIA BROOKE.

“Yes, sir,” said Sarah; “she came in a short time
ago. She must be upstairs in the nursery.” :

Mr. Brooke ran hastily up the stairs. Somehow
the way his wife had received his words on the sub-
ject of her treatment of the little girl had waked a
great tenderness in his fatherly heart for the one of
his children least loved of their mother, and he felt
an impulse to greet his little daughter with unusual
warmth—to kiss and caress her so tenderly as to hide
the coldness his ill-judged addition to his first speech
might probably bring into his wife’s manner to
Sylvia.

Geoffrey had gone round into the stable-yard with
Job, and Mrs. Brooke had already begun to ascend
the stairs towards her room. Before she reached the |
landing she uttered a sharp exclamation and hurried
towards the nursery door, for her baby’s voice in loud
lamentation was heard from within, and she and her
husband entered at the same moment.

No one was to be seen, but from the other side of
the table Teddy’s cries still rang forth. Father and
mother both started forward, and there lay the little
brother and sister, Baby lamenting at the top of his
voice, unable to extricate himself from the blanket in
which Sylvia had wound him, but otherwise unhurt;
while the little girl lay across him, her scorched hands
still clutching the sides of the blanket and her face
hidden from sight in it. The dragged table-cloth, the
SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. 91

fallen candle, and Nurse’s absence told the tale with-
out any need of explanation.

Father and mother seized each a child, with a cry
of ‘My baby, my baby!” from the poor mother; while
Mr. Brooke’s low “Sylvia, my darling!” as he lifted
the senseless child in his strong arms and gazed terror-
stricken into her white face, would have filled his little
daughter’s head with joy could she have heard it.

Baby’s frightened cries had ceased almost as soon
as he was in his mother’s arms, and she came quickly
to her husband’s side as he sat with Sylvia’s limp
form pressed against his breast, while he examined
every limb to see if she was seriously hurt. The
sight of the poor reddened little hands drew a groan
from him.

“O, John!” said Mrs. Brooke tremulously, “is she—
she isn’t—dead, is she? O, Sylvia! my dear Sylvia!” -

How often Sylvia had longed to hear her name so
endearingly spoken in her mother’s voice—longed in
vain! She had bought it at the risk of her life now,
and her ears were deaf to it,

“No, no,” said Mr. Brooke; “she is not dead, thank
God! She’s in a dead faint. Ring the bell and order
some brandy, and send for Evelyn immediately. Thank
God the little fellow’s all right, anyhow!”

As Mrs. Brooke obeyed, Nurse rushed into the
room, her master and mistress having arrived un-
known to her while she was still prolonging her fare-
93 : SYLVIA BROOKE.

well to George Tatlock. She stood aghast when the
group within met her sight, and then burst out crying.

“Stop that!” said Mr. Brooke sternly. “This is
not the time for explanations or reproaches. Do what
you can to help now. Send someone round to Mr.
Evelyn and ask him to come at once, and then take
the baby and let your mistress help me.”

The girl obeyed, and coming back silent and sub-
missive, took Teddy and wept over him with many
tearful caresses, while Mr. and Mrs. Brooke did every-
thing in their power to restore Sylvia to consciousness.
For a long time she showed no sign of life; then her
lips stirred and parted and she gave a faint sigh; and
then her dark eyes opened, at first blankly, then full
of trouble and perplexity, to find herself lying in her
father’s arms, and, wonder of wonders! her mother
kneeling beside her, love and anxiety in her face!

The troubled look in the child’s eyes melted into
one of clear comprehension, and. she half-raised herself
in her father’s arms.

“Where's Baby?” she said weakly; “oh, where’s my
‘darling Baby? O, Father! he isn’t dead, is he?”

“No, my darling, no!” cried the father and mother
dn a breath; and Mrs. Brooke burst into tears.

“You saved his life, my little Sylvia!” her father
-continued; “we owe his precious little life to you!”

The child gave a long sigh. “I thought he must
‘be.dead,” she.said; and then, “Where is he?”
SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. 93

Mrs, Brooke rose, and taking Teddy from Nurse’s
arms, where she sat apart crooning over him and
watching with beating heart for Sylvia’s recovery,
brought the little fellow to where the child lay against
her father’s breast. She knelt down with the little
one in her arms to bring his pretty face close to his
sister's; and then Sylvia put her two arms round him
and kissed and cuddled him to her heart’s content,
until Mr. Evelyn came hastily into the room, looking

- grave and anxious, for he had been out when Ellen,
horror-struck at the result of her carelessness in leav-
ing Baby alone with the lighted candle within his
reach, had rushed round to beg Mrs, Barker to send
the doctor in as soon as ever he got back, for Miss
Sylvia and the baby were “dreadfully burned!”

Under Mr. Evelyn’s directions the little girl was un-
dressed and put to bed, lest the shock and fright, and
the fainting-fit that had ensued on them, should have
any evil effects, The flame had scorched Sylvia’s
hands, and now that the excitement of the danger and
her fears for Teddy’s life were past, they began to
ache and burn. Mr. Evelyn wrapped them in oil and
wool, and she was laid cosily in her little white bed,
and then the ache grew less, and she lifted up her face
to kiss the doctor good-night with one of her sweetest .
smiles.

“You are a brave little woman,” said her old friend;
‘we shall be proud to have you for our first guest.”
94%, SYLVIA BROOKE,

After Mr. Evelyn had gone, and Geoff had entreated
to be allowed just to go in and tell his sister what
a “regular brick” she was, Sylvia had at last fallen
asleep, her father remaining some time. by her side,
lest, left alone, the terror of the remembrance of the
past danger might come over her. A little later,
however, she woke suddenly with a frightened start
at what she thought must be the middle of the night,
to see by the light of the candle her mother sitting
by her side.

“Mamma!” said the child softly.

“ What is it, my dear?” asked Mrs. Brooke in a tone
Sylvia had not often heard addressed to herself from
those lips. “Are you thirsty?”

“Yes, Mamma,” she answered.

Mrs. Brooke brought her some milk and water and
held it to her lips.

Sylvia laughed a childish little laugh.

“How funny it seems to have no hands!” she said,

. Perhaps Mrs, Brooke thought at that moment from
what awful loss and grief those little scorched hands
had saved her, and at what risk; for there were tears
of both love and remorse in her eyes as she put down
the cup, and bending over her daughter, put her arm
round her and said brokenly:

“Sylvia, dear, I am sorry I was cross to you to-day;
we must try to get on better for the future.”

It was not a very eloquent speech or magnificent
se”

SYLVIA’S TRIUMPH. °95

concession, but it was a great one for such a nature as
Mrs. Brooke’s to make, and perhaps meant as much
from her as a passionate declaration of sorrow from
another. Anyhow it was enough, and more than
enough, for the generous heart of her little daughter.

“O, Mamma! it was my fault!” she cried. “I
will try to do my sums properly.”

“T am sure you will, dear,” answered her mother,
kissing her again. “But now lie down and try to get
to sleep.”

Sylvia obeyed, and lay quiet and at peace in the
thought that she was the happiest little girl in the
world ; for Baby was not hurt, Father always loved her
dearly, she was to be Mr. Evelyn’s and Miss Milner’s
very first guest at tea, Geoff had called her a “ brick,”
and now the one thing she had longed for was come
to her, for Mamma really loved her. So thinking she
fell fast asleep, and did not even wake when Father
came in later, and kneeling by her bed laid his head
down by the little dark one he loved so well, and
thanked God with tears that the light of the lustrous
eyes had not been quenched in darkness that day, and
that his little daughter's courage had snatched her
beloved little brother from a frightful death.

THE END,
Koh Ol 24