Thus prompted, an emotion of thankfulness arose in the breast of Claire, but the utterance was kept back from the lips.  He had a secret, a painful and revolting secret, in his heart, and he feared lest something should betray its existence to his wife.  What would he not have given at the moment to have blotted out for ever the memory of thoughts too earnestly cherished on the evening before, when he was alone with the tempter?

There was a shadow on the heart of Edith Claire.  The unusual mood of her husband on the previous evening, and the dream which had haunted her through the night, left impressions that could not be shaken off.  She had an instinct of danger—­danger lurking in the path of one in whom her very life was bound up.

When Edward was about leaving her to go forth for the day, she lingered by his side and clung to him, as if she could not let him pass from the safe shelter of home.

“Ah! if I could always be with you!” said Edith—­“if we could ever move on, hand in hand and side by side, how full to running over would be my cup of happiness!”

“Are we not ever side by side, dear?” replied Claire, tenderly.  “You are present to my thought all the day.”

“And you to mine.  O yes! yes!  We are moving side by side; our mutual thought gives presence.  Yet it was the bodily presence I desired.  But that cannot be.”

“Good-bye, love!  Good-bye, sweet one!” said Claire, kissing his wife, and gently pressing his lips upon those of the babe she held in her arms.  He then passed forth, and took his way to the store of Leonard Jasper, in whose service he had been for two years, or since the date of his marriage.

A scene transpired a few days previous to this, which we will briefly describe.  Three persons were alone in a chamber, the furniture of which, though neither elegant nor costly, evinced taste and refinement.  Lying upon a bed was a man, evidently near the time of his departure from earth.  By his side, and bending over him, was a woman almost as pale as himself.  A little girl, not above five years of age, sat on the foot of the bed, with her eyes fixed on the countenance of her father, for such was the relation borne to her by the sick man.  A lovely creature she was—­beautiful even beyond the common beauty of childhood.  For a time a solemn stillness reigned through the chamber.  A few low-spoken words had passed between the parents of the child, and then, for a brief period, all was deep, oppressive silence.  This was interrupted, at length, by the mother’s unrestrained sobs, as she laid her face upon the bosom of her husband, so soon to be taken from her, and wept aloud.

No word of remonstrance or comfort came from the sick man’s lips.  He only drew his arm about the weeper’s neck, and held her closer to his heart.

The troubled waters soon ran clear:  there was calmness in their depths.

“It is but for a little while, Fanny,” said he, in a feeble yet steady voice; “only for a little while.”