She held both his hands now within her own.  She bent her face upon them, and he felt her tears trickling through his fingers.  Surely he was not to blame if, forgetting himself for the moment, he wound his arms about her and hugging her to his bosom, told her that of all the world she was the one he most wanted there at Collingwood, there just where she was now, her head upon his shoulder, her cheek against his own. 0nce she felt slightly startled, his words were so fraught with tender passion, but regarding him as her father, or at least her elder brother, she could not believe he intended addressing her save as his sister or his child, and releasing herself from his embrace, she slid back upon her stool and said, “I’m glad you’re willing I should stay.  It would kill me to go from Collingwood now.  I’ve been so happy here, and found in you so kind a father.”

She would say that last word, and she did, never observing that Richard frowned slightly as if it were to him an unwelcome sound.

Presently Edith went on, “I think, though, this Eloise ought to come, too, no matter how pleasant a home she has.  It is her duty to care for you who lost your sight for her.  Were I in her place, I should consider no sacrifice too great to atone for the past.  I would do everything in the world you asked of me, and then not half repay you.”

“Every thing, Edith?  Did you say every thing?” and it would seem that the blind eyes had for once torn away their veil, so lovingly and wistfully they rested upon the bowed head of the young girl, who, without looking up, answered back,

“Yes, every thing.  But I’m glad I am not this Eloise.”

“Why, Edith, why?” and the voice which asked the question was mournful in its tone.

“Because,” returned Edith, “I should not care to be under so great obligations to any one.  The burden would be oppressive.  I should be all the while wondering what more I could do, while you, too, would be afraid that the little kindnesses which now are prompted in a great measure by love would be rendered from a sense of gratitude and duty.  Wouldn’t it be so, Mr. Richard?”

“Yes, yes,” he whispered.  “You are right.  I should be jealous that what my heart craved as love would be only gratitude.  I am glad you suggested this, Edith; very, very, glad, and now let us talk no more of Eloise.”

“Ah, but I must,” cried Edith.  “There are so many things I want to know, and you’ve really told me nothing.  Had she brothers or sisters?  Tell me that, please.”

“There was a half sister, I believe, hut she is dead,” said Richard.  “They are all dead but this girl.  She is alive and happy, and sometime I will tell you more of her, but not now.  I am sorry I told you what I have.”

“So am I if I can’t hear the whole,” returned Edith, beginning to pout.

“I did intend to tell you all when I began,” said Richard, “but I’ve changed my mind, and Edith, I have faith to believe you will not repeat to any one our conversation.  Neither must you tease me about this girl.  It is not altogether an agreeable subject.”