“It is strange your cousin never married; he must, by this time, be nearly twenty-seven,” she said to Grace, thinking the while of Nina, and carelessly adjusting the jaunty hat upon her head.

“I think so too,” returned Grace.  “When quite young he was very fond of the ladies, but I am told that he now utterly ignores female society.  Indeed, in his last letter to me, he states distinctly that he wishes for no company except occasional calls in a friendly way.”

“Been disappointed, probably,” suggested Edith, still thinking of Nina, and wondering if Arthur did love her so very much as to put faith in no one because of her treachery.

“It may be,” said Grace; “and if so, isn’t it a little queer that he and Mr. Harrington should live so near each other; both so eccentric; both so handsome and rich; both been disappointed; and both so desirable as husbands?”

“Disappointed, Mrs. Atherton!  Has Mr. Harrington been disappointed?” and the rich bloom on Edith’s cheek deepened to a scarlet hue, which Grace did not fail to notice.

Her friendship for Edith Hastings had been a plant of sluggish growth, for she could not, at once, bring herself to treat as an equal one whom she formerly held as a servant, but time and circumstances had softened her haughty pride, while Edith’s growing popularity, both in the village and at Collingwood, awakened in her a deep interest for the young girl, who, meeting her advances more than half the way, compelled her at last to surrender, and the two were now as warm friends as individuals well can be when there is between them so great a disparity of years and so vast a difference in disposition.  In Grace’s heart the olden love for Richard had not died out, and hitherto, it had been some consolation to believe that no other ear would ever listen to the words of love, to remember which continually would assuredly drive her mad.  But matters now were changed.  Day by day, week by week, month by month, and year by year, a rose had been unfolding itself at Collingswood, and with every opening petal had grown more and more precious to the blind man, until more than one crone foretold the end; and Grace Atherton, grown fonder of gossip than she was wont to be, listened to the tale, and watched, and wondered, and wept, and still caressed and loved the bright, beautiful girl, whom she dreaded as a powerful rival.  This it was which prompted her to speak of Richard’s disappointment; and when she saw the effect produced upon Edith, it emboldened her to go on, and tell how, years and years ago, when Richard Harrington first went to Europe, be had sued for the hand of a young girl whom he met there, and who, while loving him dearly, shrank from walking in his shadow, and gave herself to another.

“I must not tell you the name of this faithless girl,” said Grace.  “It is sufficient that her refusal made Richard gloomy, eccentric and misanthropical; in short, it nearly ruined him.”