“Thirteen years,” he replied.  “He picked me up in Germany, just before he came home to America.  He was not blind then.”

“Then you never saw my mother?”

“Never.”

“Nor Marie?”

“Never to my knowledge,”

“You were in Geneva with Richard, you say.  Where were you, when—­ when—­”

Edith could not finish, but Victor understood what she would ask, and answered her,

“I must have been in Paris.  I went home for a few months, ten years ago last fall, and did not return until just before we came to Collingwood.  The housekeeper told me there had been a wedding at Lake View, our Geneva home, but I did not ask the particulars.  There’s a moral there, Edith; a warning to all foolish college boys, and girls, who don’t half know their minds.”

Edith was too intent upon her own matters to care for morals, and without replying directly, she said,

“Richard will tell you to-morrow or to-day, rather, of the engagement, and you’ll be guarded, won’t you?”

“I shall let him know I disapprove,” returned Victor, “but I shan’t say anything that sounds like Arthur St. Claire, not yet, at all events.”

“And, Victor, in the course of the day, you’ll make some errand to Brier Hill, and incidentally mention it to Mrs. Atherton.  Richard won’t tell her, I know, and I can’t—­I can’t.  Oh, I wish it were—­ "

“The widow, instead of you,” interrupted Victor, as he stood with the door knob in his hand.  “That’s what you mean, and I must say it shows a very proper frame of mind in a bride-elect.”

Edith made a gesture for him to leave her, and with a low bow he withdrew, while Edith, alternately shivering with cold and flushed with fever, crept into bed, and fell away to sleep, forgetting, for the time, that there were in the world such things as broken hearts, unwilling brides, and blind husbands old enough to be her father.

* * * * * *

The breakfast dishes were cleared away, all but the exquisite little service brought for Edith’s use when she was sick, and which now stood upon the side-board waiting until her long morning slumber should end.  Once Mrs. Matson had been to her bedside, hearing from her that her head was aching badly, and that she would sleep longer.  This message was carried down to Richard, who entertained his guests as best he could, but did not urge them to make a longer stay.

They were gone now, and Richard was alone.  It was a favorable opportunity for telling Victor of his engagement, and summoning the latter to his presence, he bade him sit down, himself hesitating, stammering and blushing like a woman, as he tried to speak of Edith.  Victor might have helped him, but he would not, as he sat, rather enjoying his master’s confusion, until the latter said, abruptly,

“Victor, how would you like to have a mistress here—­a bona fide one, I mean, such as my wife would be?”