“No, no, oh, Richard, no.  Don’t require it of me.  Anything but that.  I never knew she wrote it.  I never meant—­oh, Richard, Richard!”

She laid her head now on his knee and sobbed aloud, while he continued: 

“You must read it to me, ’Tis the only punishment I shall inflict upon you.”

“Read it, Edith,” Arthur said, withdrawing one of his hands from Richard’s, and resting it upon her head thus to re-assure her,

Richard guessed his intention and laid his own on Arthur’s.  Edith felt the gentle, forgiving pressure, even through the wounded, bandaged hand, and this it was which gave her strength to read that message, which brought Nina before them all, a seemingly living, breathing presence.  And when it was finished there was heard in that library more than one “great cry, like the breaking up of the ice on the Northern ponds.”

Richard was the calmest of the three.  The contents of the letter were not new to him, and did not touch so tender a chord as that which thrilled and quivered in Arthur’s heart as he listened to the words of his sweet child-wife, the golden haired Nina.  Though dead she was all powerful yet, and Nina, from her grave, swayed a mightier sceptre than Nina living could have done.

“Edith,” Richard said, when her agitation had in a measure subsided, “you have read the letter, now tell me, is it true?  Crazy people do not always see or hear aright.  Did Nina?  Has Arthur loved you all the time?”

“Spare Edith,” Arthur cried; “And question me.  I did love Edith Hastings, even when I had no right so to do.”

“And would you ask her to be your wife if there were no Richard in the way, and she was free as when you first knew and loved her?”

Arthur knew the blind man was not trifling with him, and he answered promptly,

“I would, but she will bear me witness that never since Nina died, have I sought, by word or deed, to influence her decision.”

“I believe you,” Richard said; “and now, let us compare our love for her, one with the other.  Let us see which is the stronger of the two.  Do you love Edith so much that you would give her to another, if you knew she loved that other best?  If she were promised to you by a vow she dared not break, would you give her to me, supposing I was preferred before you?”

Arthur was very white, as he answered,

“That would not be one-half so hard as the yielding her to one whom she did not love, and, Richard, I have done this.  I have given her to you, even when I knew that a word from me would have kept her from you.”

“That is hardly an answer to my question,” Richard rejoined, “but it shows how honorable you have been.  I question whether I could have done as much.  Your sense of right and wrong was stronger than your love.”

“But,” said Arthur, quickly interrupting him, “you must not think that I loved Edith less, because I did not speak.  Silence only fed the flame, and she cannot be so inexpressibly dear to you as she is to me.  Oh, Richard, Richard, you do not know how much I love her.”