“Darling, is it you?” he asked, and his dark face became positively beautiful with the radiant love-light shining out all over it.

Every day the hope grew stronger that the cherished object of his life might be realized.  Edith did not avoid him as he feared she would.  On the contrary she rather sought his society than otherwise, never, however, speaking of the decision.  It was a part of the agreement that they should not talk of it until the four weeks were gone, the weeks which to Richard dragged so slowly, while to Edith they flew on rapid wing; and with every rising sun, she felt an added pang as she thought how soon the twelfth of May would be there.  It wanted but four days of it when she joined him in the garden, and for the first time since their conversation Richard alluded to it by asking playfully, “what day of the month it was?”

“The eighth;” and Edith’s eyes closed tightly over the tears struggling to gain egress, then with a mighty effort she added, laughingly,

“When the day after to-morrow comes, it will be the tenth, then the eleventh, then the twelfth, and then, you know, I’m coming to you in the library.  Send Victor off for that evening, can’t you?  He’s sure to come in when I don’t want him, if he’s here,” and this she said because she feared it would be harder to say yes if Victor’s reproachful eyes should once look upon her, as they were sure to do, if he suspected her designs.

Richard could not understand why Victor must be sent away, but anything Edith asked was right, and he replied that Victor should not trouble them.

“There, he’s coming now!” and Edith dropped the hand she held, as if fearful lest the Frenchman should suspect.

This was not the proper feeling, she knew, and returning to the house, she shut herself up in her room, crying bitterly because she could not make herself feel differently!

The twelfth came at last, not a balmy, pleasant day as May is wont to bring, but a rainy, dreary April day, when the gray clouds chased each other across the leaden sky, now showing a disposition to bring out patches of blue, and again growing black and heavy as the fitful showers came pattering down.  Edith was sick.  The strong tension of nerves she had endured for four long weeks was giving way.  She could not keep up longer; and Richard breakfasted and dined without her, while with an aching head she listened to the rain beating against her windows, and watched the capricious clouds as they floated by.  Many times she wished it all a dream from which she should awaken; and then, when she reflected that ’twas a fearful reality, she covered her head with the bed-clothes and prayed that she might die.  But why pray for this?  She need not be Richard’s wife unless she chose—­he had told her so repeatedly, and now she too said “I will not!” Strange she had not thus decided before and stranger still that she should be so happy now she had decided!