Now was Edith’s time if ever, and thrusting the worsted work she was crocheting into her pocket, she stepped to the library door and said pleasantly “You seem to be in a deep study.  Possibly you don’t want me now?”

“Yes, I do,” he answered quickly.  “I always want you.”

“And can always do without me, too, I dare say,” Edith rejoined playfully, as she took her seat upon a low ottoman, near him.

“No, I couldn’t,” and Richard sighed heavily.  “If I had not you I should not care to live.  I dreamed last night that you were dead, that you died while I was gone, and I dug you up with my own hands just to look upon your face again.  I always see you in my sleep.  I am not blind then, and when a face fairer, more beautiful than any of which the poets ever sang flits before me, I whisper to myself, ‘that’s Edith,—­that’s my daylight.’”

“Oh, mistaken man,” Edith returned, laughingly, “how terribly you would be disappointed could you be suddenly restored to sight and behold the long, lank, bony creature I know as Edith Hastings—­ low forehead, turned-up nose, coarse, black hair, all falling out, black eyes, yellowish black skin, not a particle of red in it—­the fever took that away and has not brought it back.  Positively, Richard, I’m growing horridly ugly.  Even my hair, which I’ll confess I did use to think was splendid, is as rough as a chestnut burr.  Feel for yourself if you don’t believe me,” and she laid his hand upon her hair, which, though beautiful and abundant, still was quite uneven and had lost some of its former satin gloss.

Richard shook his head.  Edith’s description of her personal appearance made not a particle of difference with him.  She might not, perhaps, have recovered her good looks, but she would in time.  She was improving every day, and many pronounced her handsomer than before her sickness, for where there had been, perhaps, a superabundance of color and health there was now a pensive, subdued beauty, preferred by some to the more glowing, dashing style which had formerly distinguished Edith Hastings from every one else in Shannondale.  Something like this he said to her, but Edith only laughed and continued her crocheting, wondering how she should manage to introduce Grace Atherton.  It was already half-past eight, Victor might soon be home, and if she spoke to him that night she must begin at once.  Clearing her throat and making a feint to cough, she plunged abruptly into the subject by saying, “Richard, why have you never married?  Didn’t you ever see anybody you loved well enough?”

Richard’s heart gave one great throb and then grew still, for Edith had stumbled upon the very thing uppermost in his mind.  What made her?  Surely, there was a Providence in it.  ’Twas an omen of good, boding success to his suit, and after a moment he replied,

“Strange that you and I should both be thinking of matrimony.  Do you know that my dreaming you were dead is a sign that you will soon be married?”