His voice was more natural now, and Nina, lifting up her head, crept closely to him, whispering softly, “Good boy, you will do right.”

His long, white fingers threaded her sunny hair, and this was all the token he gave that he was conscious of her presence.

“Don’t you know now, Edith, what it is which stands between us?” he asked; and Edith answered, “It is Nina, but how I do not understand.”

Arthur groaned a sharp, bitter groan, and rocking to and fro replied, “Must I tell you?  Won’t you ever guess until I do?  Oh, Edith, Edith—­put the past and present together—­remember the picture found in my room when you were a little girl, the picture of Nina Bernard; think of all that has happened; my dread to meet with Richard, though that you possibly did not know; my foolish fear, lest you should know of Nina; her clinging devotion to me; my brotherly care for her; Richard’s story of the one single marriage ceremony he ever performed, where the bride’s curls were like these,” and he lifted Nina’s golden ringlets.  “You hear me, don’t you?”

He knew she did, for her bosom was heaving with choking sobs as if her soul were parting from the body; her breath came heavily from between her quivering lips, and her eyes were riveted upon him like coals of living fire.  Yes, he knew she heard, and he only questioned her to give himself another moment ere he cut asunder the last chord and sent her drifting out upon the dark sea of despair.

“Edith—­Edith—­Edith,” and with each word he hugged Nina closer to him, so close that she gave a cry of pain, but he did not heed it; he hardly knew he held her—­his thoughts were all for the poor, wretched girl, rising slowly to her feet.  “Edith, you surely understand me now.  The obstacle between us is—–­; oh, Nina, say it for me, tell her what you are to me.”

“I know,” and Edith Hastings stood tall and erect before him, “Nina is your wife.”

Nina looked up and smiled, while Edith crossed her arms upon her breast, and waited for him to answer.

“Yes, Edith,—­though never before acknowledged as such, Nina is my wife; but, Edith, I swear it before high Heaven, she is only a wife in name.  Never for a day, or hour, or moment have I lived with her as such.  Were it otherwise, I could not have fallen so low.  Her father came the very night we were married, and took her away next morning.  Griswold and I must have met him just as we left the yard, after having assisted Nina and her room-mate, Sarah Warren, to reach the window, from which they had adroitly escaped little move than an hour before.  No one had missed them,—­no one ever suspected the truth, and as Miss Warren died a few months afterward, only Nina, Griswold and myself knew the secret, which I guarded most carefully for fear of expulsion from college.  You know the rest.  You know it all, Nina is my wife.  Nina is my wife,- -my wife,—­my wife.”