CHAPTER VIII.

Before a month had passed Sylvia showed signs of marked improvement. She still looked rather like a colt, but like a colt that it well fed and cared for; whereas when Neville—or Jack, as he had re-christened himself—had bought her she was like a colt that had been left to the mercy of the cold winds and bitter weather on some bleak moor. Her face had lost the wan, sorrow-stricken expression which had gone so straight to the heart of Neville that ever-memorable night on which he had first seen her, and though at tim…