All this was mere jesting; but the words, though uttered in jest, fell upon the ears of Edwin Florence with all the force of truth.

“Guilty, on your own acknowledgment,” said the friend, seeing the effect of his words.  “Better always to act fairly in these matters of the heart, Florence.  If we sow the wind, we will be pretty sure to reap the whirlwind.  But come; let me take you down to the Tremont, and introduce you to Colonel Richards.  I know he will be glad to make your acquaintance, and will, most probably, give you an invitation to go home with him and spend a week.  You can then make all fair with his pretty niece.”

“I have no wish to make his acquaintance just at this time,” returned Florence; “nor do I suppose he cares about making mine, particularly after the high opinion you gave him of my character.”

“Nonsense, Edwin!  You don’t suppose I said that to him.  Can’t you take a joke?”

“Oh, yes; I can take a joke.”

“Take that as one, then.  Colonel Richards did ask for you, however; and said that he would like to meet you.  He was serious.  So come along, and let me introduce you.”

“No; I would prefer not meeting with him at this time.”

“You are a strange individual.”

The young men parted; Florence to feel more disquieted than ever.  Colonel Richards had been inquiring about him, and, in prosecuting his inquiries, would, most likely, find some one inclined to relate the story of Edith Walter.  What was more natural?  That story once in the ears of Clara, and he felt that she must turn from him with a feeling of repulsion.

Three or four days longer he was in suspense.  He heard of Col.  Richards from several quarters, and, in each case when he was mentioned, he was alluded to as making inquiries about him.

“I hear that the beautiful Miss Weldon is to be married,” was said to Florence at a time when he was almost mad with the excitement of suspense.

“Ah!” he replied, with forced calmness, “I hope she will be successful in securing a good husband.”

“So do I; for she is indeed a sweet girl.  I was more than half inclined to fall in love with her myself; and would leave done so, if I had believed there was any chance for me.”

“Who is the favored one?” asked Florence.

“I have not been able to find out.  She received three or four offers, and went back to Albany to consider them and make her election.  This she has done, I hear; and already, the happy recipient of her favor is rejoicing over his good fortune.  May they live a thousand years to be happy with each other!”

Here was another drop of bitterness in the cup that was at the lips of Edwin Florence.  He went to his office immediately, and, setting down, wrote thus to Clara: