As to what was thought or said of him by others, Edwin Florence cared but little.  There was enough of pain in his own self-consciousness.  He withdrew himself from the social circle, and, for several years, lived a kind of hermit-life in the midst of society.  But, he was far from being happy in his solitude; for Memory was with him, and almost daily, from the Book of his Life, read to him some darkly written page.

One day, it was three years from the time he parted with Edith in the chamber of death, and when he was beginning to rise in a measure above the depressing influences attendant upon that event,—­he received an invitation to make one of a social party on the next evening.  The desire to go back again in society had been gaining strength with him for some time; and, as it had gained strength, reason had pointed out the error of his voluntary seclusion as unavailing to alter the past.

“The past is past,” he said to himself, as he mused with the invitation in his hand.  “I cannot recall it—­I cannot change it.  If repentance can in any way atone for error, surely I have made atonement; for my repentance has been long and sincere.  If Edith can see my heart, her spirit must be satisfied.  Even she could not wish for this living burial.  It is better for me to mingle in society as of old.”

Acting on this view, Florence made one on the next evening, in a social party.  He felt strangely, for his mind was invaded by old influences, and touched by old impressions.  He saw, in many a light and airy form, as it glanced before him, the image of one long since passed away; and heard, in the voices that filled the rooms, many a tone that it seemed must have come from the lips of Edith.  How busy was Memory again with the past.  In vain he sought to shut out the images that arose in his mind.  The page was open before him, and what was impressed thereon he could not but see and read.

This passed, in some degree, away as the evening progressed, and he came nearer, so to speak, to some of those who made up the happy company.  Among those present was a young lady from a neighboring city, who attracted much attention both from her manners and person.  She fixed the eyes of Mr. Florence soon after he entered the room, and, half unconsciously to himself, his observation was frequently directed towards her.

“Who is that lady?” he asked of a friend, an hour after his arrival.

“Her name is Miss Welden.  She is from Albany.”

“She has a very interesting face,” said Florence.

“And quite as interesting a mind.  Miss Weldon is a charming girl.”