CHAPTER XXXIV.

Neville tossed and rolled through the night, but, strange to say, it was not the thought of Jordan’s villainy which kept him from the sleep which knits up the raveled sleeve of care. It was Sylvia. “Her brother!” he thought. “That’s all I am to her. Just her brother, nothing more! She wouldn’t have flown to me, and made so much of me, if—if she’d cared for me in any other way. And why should she care for me in the way I want? A lovely, radiant creature like her—she looked like a young princess!—and famous, too! No …