Sylvia felt that the real heroisms of life were not so much the fine heady deeds which are so obviously admirable, as such serene steadfastness, such unvarying patience as that which she had just seen.
Her whole soul applauded Michael, and yet below her applause was this heartache for him, the desire to be able to help him to bear the burden which must be so heavy, though he bore it so blithely.

But in the very nature of things there was but one way in which she could help him, and in that she was powerless.

She could not give him what he wanted.

But she longed to be able to..