“Tell little Snowdrop the blind man sends her his blessing and his love, thinking of her often as he sits here alone these gloomy autumn nights, no Edith, no Nina, nothing but lonesome darkness.  Tell her that he prays she may get well again, or if she does not, that she may be one of the bright angels which make the fields of Jordan so beautiful and fair”

This letter Edith took to Nina one day, when Arthur and Victor had gone to Tallahassee, and Mrs. Lamotte was too busy with her own matters to interrupt them.  Nina had not heard of the engagement, for Arthur could not tell her, and Edith shrank from the task as from something disagreeable.  Still she had a strong desire for Nina to know how irrevocably she was bound to another, hoping thus to prevent the unpleasant allusions frequently made to herself and Arthur.  The excitement of finding a sister in Miggie, had in a measure overturned Nina’s reason again, and for many days after the disclosure she was more than usually wild, talking at random of the most absurd things, but never for a moment losing sight of the fact that Edith was her sister.  This seemed to be the one single clear point from which her confused ideas radiated, and the love she bore her sister was strong enough to clear away the tangled web of thought and bring her at last to a calmer, more natural state of mind.  There were hours in which no one would suspect her of insanity, save that as she talked childish, and even meaningless expressions were mingled with what she said, showing that the woof of her intellect was defective still, and in such a condition as this Edith found her that day when, with Richard’s letter in her hand, she seated herself upon the foot of the bed and said, “I heard from Richard last night.  You remember him, darling?”

“Yes, he made me Arthur’s wife; but I wish he hadn’t for then you would not look so white and sorry.”

“Never mind that,” returned Edith, “but listen to the message he sent his little Snowdrop,” and she read what Richard had written to Nina.

“I wish I could be one of those bright angels,” Nina said, mournfully, when Edith finished reading; “but, Miggie, Nina’s so bad.  I can think about it this morning, for the buzzing in my head is very faint, and I don’t get things much twisted, I reckon.  I’ve been bad to Arthur a heap of times, and he was never anything but kind to me.  I never saw a frown on his face or heard an impatient word, only that sorry look, and that voice so sad.”

“Don’t, Nina, don’t.

“Even Dr. Griswold was not patient as Arthur.  He was quicker like, and his face would grow so red.  He used to shake me hard, and once he raised his hand, but Arthur caught it quick and said ’No, Griswold, not that—­not strike Nina,’ and I was tearing Arthur’s hair out by handfuls, too.  That’s when I bit him.  I told you once.”

“Yes, I know,” Edith replied; “but I wish to talk of something besides Arthur, now.  Are you sure you can understand me?”