The door was dosed at last; Victor was gone; their guests were gone, and she was alone with Richard, who seemed waiting for her to speak; but Edith could not.  The breath she fancied would come so freely with Victor’s presence removed, would scarcely come at all, and she felt the tears gathering like a flood every time she looked at the sightless man before her, and thought of what was to come.  By a thousand little devices she strove to put it off, and remembering that the piano was open, she walked with a faltering step across the parlor, closed the instrument, smoothed the heavy cover, arranged the sheets of music, whirled the music stool as high as she could, turned it back as low as she could, sat down upon it, crushed with her fingers two great tears, which, with all her winking she could not keep in subjection, counted the flowers on the paper border and wondered how long she should probably live.  Then, with a mighty effort she arose, and with a step which this time did not falter, went and stood before Richard, who was beginning to look troubled at her protracted silence.  He knew she was near him now, he could hear her low breathing, and he waited anxiously for her to speak.

Edith’s face was a study then.  Almost every possible emotion was written upon it.  Fear, anguish, disappointed hopes, cruel longings for the past, terrible shrinkings from the present, and still more terrible dread of the future.  Then these passed away, and were succeeded by pity, sympathy, gratitude, and a strong desire to do right.  The latter feelings conquered, and sitting down by Richard, she took his warm hand between her two cold ones, and said to him,

“’Tis the twelfth of May to-night, did you know it?”

Did he know it?  He had thought of nothing else the livelong day, and when, early in the morning, he heard that she was sick, a sad foreboding had swept over him, lest what he coveted so much should yet be withheld.  But she was there beside him.  She had sought the opportunity and asked if he knew it was the twelfth, and, drawing her closer to him, he answered back:  “Yes, darling; ’tis the day on which you were to bring me your decision.  You have kept your word, birdie.  You have brought it to me whether good or bad.  Now tell me, is it the old blind man’s wife, the future mistress of Collingwood, that I encircle with my arm?”

He bent down to listen for the reply, feeling her breath stir his hair, and hearing each heart-beat as it counted off the seconds.  Then like a strain of music, sweet and rich, but oh, so touchingly sad, the words came floating in a whisper to his ear, “Yes, Richard, your future wife; but please, don’t call yourself the old blind man.  It makes you seem a hundred times my father.  You are not old, Richard—­no older than I feel!” and the newly betrothed laid her head on Richard’s shoulder, sobbing passionately.