“Neither, Mr. Leigh.  I am quite well, I assure you.”

“You are grieved about something, which you are unwilling to confide to me.  Edna, it is keen pain that sometimes brings that quiver to your lips, and if you would only tell me!  Edna, I know that I—­”

“You conjure up a spectre.  I have nothing to confide, and there is no trouble which you can relieve.”

They walked on silently for a while, and then Gordon said: 

“I am going away day after to-morrow, to be absent at least for several months, and I have come to ask a favor which you are too generous to deny.  I want your ambrotype or photograph, and I hope you will give it to me without hesitation.”

“I have never had a likeness of any kind taken.”

“There is a good artist here; will you not go to-day and have one taken for me?”

“No, Mr. Leigh.”

“Oh, Edna!  Why not?”

“Because I do not wish you to think of remembering me.  The sooner you forget me entirely, save as a mere friend, the happier we both shall be.”

“But that is impossible.  If you withhold your picture it will do no good, for I have your face here in my heart, and you cannot take that image from me.”

“At least I will not encourage feelings which can bring only pain to me and disappointment to yourself.  I consider it unprincipled and contemptible in a woman to foster or promote in any degree an affection which she knows she can never reciprocate.  If I had fifty photographs I would not give you one.  My dear friend, let the past be forgotten; it saddens me whenever I think of it, and is a barrier to all pleasant, friendly intercourse.  Good-bye, Mr. Leigh.  You have my best wishes on your journey.”

“Will you not allow me to see you home?”

“I think it is best—­I prefer that you should not.  Mr. Leigh, promise me that you will struggle against this feeling which distresses me beyond expression.”

She turned and put out her hand.  He shook his head mournfully, and said as he left her: 

“God bless you!  It will be a dreary, dreary season with me till I return and see your face again.  God preserve you till then!”

Walking rapidly homeward, Edna wondered why she could not return Gordon Leigh’s affection—­why his noble face never haunted her dreams instead of another’s—­of which she dreaded to think.

Looking rigorously into the past few weeks, she felt that long before she was aware of the fact, an image to which she refused homage must have stood between her heart and Gordon’s.

When she reached home she inquired for Miss Harding, and was informed that she and Mrs. Murray had gone visiting with Mr. Allston; had taken lunch, and would not return until late in the afternoon.  Hagar told her that Mr. Murray had started at daylight to one of his plantations about twelve miles distant, and would not be back in time for dinner; and, rejoiced at the prospect of a quiet day, she determined to complete the chapter which she had left unfinished two night previous.