He walked rapidly,--he had a vague, unformed
desire in his mind to see Sylvie again if possible. He knew where
she lived, and he soon turned down the street where the quaint old
central balcony of the Casa D'Angeli thrust itself forward into the
moon-rays among the sculptured angels' wings,--and he saw that the
windows were open. Pausing underneath he waited, hesitating--full of
strange thoughts and stranger regrets. How poor and valueless seemed
his life as he regarded it now!--now when he had voluntarily placed
it in jeopardy! What had he done with his days of youth and prime?
Frittered away every valuable moment,--thrown to the winds every
costly opportunity,--spent his substance on light women who had
kissed and clung to him one day, and repulsed him the next. Well--
and after? His heart beat thickly,--if he could only see Sylvie for
a moment! Hush! There was a murmur--a voice--a ripple of sweet
laughter; and moving cautiously back into the shadows, he looked up-
-yes!--there she was--clad in some soft silvery stuff that gathered
a thousand sparkles from the light of the moon,--her fair hair
caught up in a narrow circlet of diamonds, and her sweet face purely
outlined against the dark worn stone of one of the great carved
angel-wings.
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