Edith started, and very foolishly replied,

“Do you mean Mr. Harrington?”

She knew he didn’t, but her heart was so sore on the subject of Arthur’s absence that she longed to be reassured in some way, and so said what she did.

“No, Edith, it is not Mr. Harrington, I mean,” and Dr. Griswold’s bright eyes fastened themselves upon the trembling girl as if to read her inmost soul, and see how far her feelings were enlisted.

“It’s Arthur,” said Nina, nodding knowingly at both.

“Arthur,” Edith repeated bitterly.  “Fine proof he gives of his love.  Going from home for an indefinite length of time without one word for me.  He hates me, I know,” and bursting into tears she buried her face in the lap of Nina, who sat upon the bed.

“Poor Edith!” and another hand than Nina’s smoothed her bands of shining hair.  “By this one act you have confessed that Arthur’s love is not unrequited.  I hoped it might be otherwise.  God help you, Edith.  God help you.”

He spoke earnestly, and a thrill of fear ran through Edith’s veins.  Lifting up her head, she said,

“You talk as if it were a certainty that Arthur St. Claire loves me.  He has never told me so—­never.”

She could not add that he had never given her reason to think so, for he had, and her whole frame quivered with joy as she heard her suspicions confirmed by Dr. Griswold.

“He does love you, Edith Hastings.  He has confessed as much to me, and this is why he has gone from home.  He would forget you, and it is right.  He must forget you; he must not love.  It would be a wicked, wicked thing; and Edith—­are you listening—­do you hear all I say?”

“Yes,” came faintly from Nina’s lap, where Edith had laid her face again.

“Then promise not to marry him, so long—­so long—­Oh, Nina, how can I say it?  Edith, swear you’ll never marry Arthur.  Swear, Edith, swear.”

His voice was raised to a shriek, and by the dim light of the lamp, which fell upon his pallid features, both Edith and Nina saw the wild delirium flashing from his eye.  Nina was the first to detect it, and wringing Edith’s hand she whispered, imploringly,

“Swear, Miggie, once.  Say thunder, or something like that as softly as you can.  It won’t be so very bad, and he wants you to so much.”

Frightened as Edith was at Dr. Griswold’s manner she could not repress a smile at Nina’s mistaken idea.  Still she did not swear, and all that night he continued talking incoherently of Arthur, of Edith, of Nina, Geneva, Richard Harrington, and a thousand other matters, mingling them together in such a manner that nothing clear or connected could be made of what he said.  In the morning he was more quiet, but there was little hope of his life, the physician said.  From the first he had greatly desired to see Arthur once more, and when his danger became apparent a telegram had been forwarded to the wanderer, but brought back no response.  Another was sent, and another, the third one, in the form of a letter, finding him far up the Red river, where in that sultry season the air was rife with pestilence, which held with death many a wanton revel, and would surely have claimed him for its victim, but for the timely note which called him away.