Never before had the words “that Swedish mother” touched so tender a chord in Edith’s heart as now, and forgetting every thing in her intense desire to know something of her own early history, she exclaimed, “You knew my mother, Richard.  You have heard her voice, seen her face; now tell me of her, please.  Where is she?  And Marie, too, for there was a Marie.  Let’s forget all that’s been said within the last half hour.  Let’s begin anew, making believe it’s yesterday instead of now, and, when the story is ended, ask me again if the singing bird can mate with the eagle.  The grand, royal eagle, Richard, is the best similitude for you,” and forcing herself to sit upon his knee, she put her arms around his neck bidding him again tell her of her mother.

With the elastic buoyancy of youth Edith could easily shake off the gloom which for a few brief moments had shrouded her like a pall, but not so with Richard.  “The singing-bird must not mate with the owl,” rang continually in his ears.  It was her real sentiment he knew, and his heart ached so hard as he thought how he had staked his all on her and lost it.

“Begin,” she said, “Tell me where you first met my mother.”

Richard heaved a sigh which smote heavily on Edith’s ear, for she guessed of what he was thinking, and she longed to reassure him of her intention to be his sight hereafter, but he was about to speak and she remained silent.

“Your mother,” he said “was a Swede by birth, and her marvellous beauty first attracted your father, whose years were double her own.”

“I’m so glad,” interrupted Edith, “As much as twenty-one years older, wasn’t he?”

“More than that,” answered Richard, a half pleased, half bitter smile playing over his dark face, “Forgive me, darling, but I’m afraid he was not as good a man as he should have been, or as kind to his young wife.  When I first saw her she lived in a cottage alone, and he was gone.  She missed him sadly, and her sweet voice seemed full of tears as she sang her girl baby to sleep.  You have her voice, Edith, and its tones came back to me the first time I ever heard you speak.  But I was telling of your father.  He was dissipated, selfish and unprincipled,—­affectionate and kind to Petrea one day, cold, hard and brutal the next.  Still she loved him and clung to him, for he was the father of her child.  You were a beautiful little creature, Edith, and I loved you so much that when I knew you had fallen from a bluff into the river, I unhesitatingly plunged after you.”

“I remember it,” cried Edith, “I certainly do, or else it was afterwards told to me so often that it seems a reality.”

“The latter is probably the fact,” returned Richard.  “You were too young to retain any vivid recollections of that fall.”

Still Edith persisted that she did remember the face of a little girl in the water as she looked over the rock, and of bending to touch the arm extended toward her.  She remembered Bingen, too, with its purple grapes; else why had she been haunted all her life with vine-clad hills and plaintive airs.