There was a knock at the door, and Grace Atherton asked to be admitted.

“Richard told me you were sick,” she said, as she sat down by Edith’s side; “and you do look ghostly white.  What is the matter, pray?”

“One of my nervous headaches;” and Edith turned from the light so that her face should tell no tales of the conflict within.

“I received a letter from Arthur last night,” Grace continued, “and thinking you might like to hear from Nina, I came round in the rain to tell you of her.  Her health is somewhat improved, and she is now under the care of a West India physician, who holds out strong hopes that her mental derangement may in time be cured.”

Edith was doubly glad now that she had turned her face away, for by so doing she hid the tears which dropped so fast upon her pillow.

“Did Arthur mention me?” she asked, and Grace knew then that she was crying.

Still it was better not to withhold the truth, and bending over her she answered,

“No, Edith, he did not.  I believe he is really striving to do right.”

“And he will live with Nina if she gets well?” came next from the depths of the pillows where Edith lay half smothered.

“Perhaps so.  Would you not like to have him?” Grace asked.

“Ye-e-e-s.  I sup-pose so.  Oh, I don’t know what I like.  I don’t know anything except that I wish I was dead,” and the silent weeping became a passionate sobbing as Edith shrank further from Grace, plunging deeper and deeper among her pillows until she was nearly hidden from view.

Grace could not comfort her; there was no comfort as she saw, and as Edith refused to answer any of her questions upon indifferent topics, she ere long took her leave, and Edith was left alone.  She had reversed her decision while Grace was sitting there, and the news from Florida was the immediate cause.  She should marry Richard now, and her whole body shook with the violence of her emotions; but as the fiercest storm will in time expend its fury, so she grew still at last, though it was rather the stillness of despair than any healthful, quieting influence stealing over her.  She hated herself because she could not feel an overwhelming joy at the prospect of Nina’s recovery; hated Arthur because he had forgotten her; hated Grace for telling her so; hated Victor for saying he would rather see her dead than Richard’s wife; hated Mrs. Matson for coming in to ask her how she was; hated her for staying there when she would rather be alone, and made faces at her from beneath the sheet; hated everybody but Richard, and in time she should hate him—­at least, she hoped she should, for on the whole she was more comfortable when hating people than she had ever been when loving them.  It had such a hardened effect upon her, this hatred of all mankind, such a don’t care influence, that ahe rather enjoyed it than otherwise.