“My own, my generous Edith—­it was ever thus—­you are always the noble and the true.  Go, then—­you are right—­you must go alone.  Relieve me from this sorrow if you can.  I need not say to you, persuade her, if in your power; for much I doubt whether her prospects are altogether so good as she has represented them to me.  So fine a creature must not be sacrificed.”

Edith lost no time in proceeding to the dwelling and into the chamber of Lucy Munro.  She regarded none of the objections of the old lady, the aunt of her she sought, who would have denied her entrance.  Edith’s was a spirit of the firmest mould—­tenacious of its purpose, and influenced by no consideration which would have jostled with the intended good.  She approached the sufferer, who lay half-conscious only on her couch.  Lucy could not be mistaken as to the person of her visiter.  The noble features, full of generous beauty and a warm spirit, breathing affection for all human things, and doubly expanded with benevolent sweetness when gazing down upon one needing and deserving of so much—­all told her that the beloved and the betrothed of Ralph Colleton was before her.  She looked but once; then, sighing deeply, turned her head upon the pillow, so as to shut out a presence so dangerously beautiful.

But Edith was a woman whose thoughts—­having deeply examined the minute structure of her own heart—­could now readily understand that of another which so nearly resembled it.  She perceived the true course for adoption; and, bending gently over the despairing girl, she possessed herself of one of her hands, while her lips, with the most playful sweetness of manner, were fastened upon those of the sufferer.  The speech of such an action was instantaneous in its effect.

“Oh, why are you here—­why did you come?” was the murmured inquiry of the drooping maiden.

“To know you—­to love you—­to win you to love me, Lucy.  I would be worthy of your love, dear girl, if only to be grateful.  I know how worthy you are of all of mine.  I have heard all.”

“No! no! not all—­not all, or you never would be here.”

“It is for that very reason that I am here.  I have discovered more than Ralph Colleton could report, and love you all the better, Lucy, as you can feel with me how worthy he is of the love of both.”

A deep sigh escaped the lips of the lovely sufferer, and her face was again averted from the glance of her visiter.  The latter passed her arm under her neck, and, sitting on the bedside, drew Lucy’s head to her bosom.

“Yes, Lucy, the woman has keener instincts than the man, and feels even where he fails to see.  Do not wonder, therefore, that Edith Colleton knows more than her lover ever dreamed of.  And now I come to entreat you to love me for his sake.  You shall be my sister, Lucy, and in time you may come to love me for my own sake.  My pleasant labor, Lucy, shall be to win your love—­to