Drawing a chair before it he made her sit down, while he untied and removed her hat, brushing the drops of rain from her hair, and doing it in so quiet, familiar, and withal so womanly a manner that Edith began to feel quite at home with him, and to think she had not done so foolish a thing, after all, in coming there.  When sure she was comfortable, he drew a chair opposite to her, and for the first time since they met, she had a chance to see what changes eight years had wrought in one she thought so handsome, as a youth.  He was larger, more fully developed than when she parted from him in Albany, and it seemed to her as if he were taller, too.  He was certainly manlier in his appearance, and the incipient mustache at which her nose was once contemptuously elevated, was now rich, brown beard, adding, as some would think, to the beauty of his face, the pride of his barber, and the envy of his less fortunate comrades.  He was a remarkably fine looking man, handsomer even than Richard Harrington, inasmuch as he had not about him the air of helplessness which characterized the blind man.  The same old mischievous twinkle lurked in the soft brown eyes, and the corners of the mouth curved just as they used to do.  But his smile was not as frequent or as joyous as of old, while on his brow there was a shadow resting—­an expression of sad disquiet, as if thus early he had drank deeply from the cup of sorrow.  Amid his wavy hair a line of silver was now and then discernible, and Edith thought how much faster he had grown old than Richard Harrington.  And well be might, for Richard, in his blindness was happier far than Arthur St. Claire, blessed with health, and riches, and eyesight, and youth.  He had no secret eating to his very heart’s core, and with every succeeding year magnifying itself into a greater evil than it really was, as an error concealed is sure to do.  Besides that, Richard had Edith, while Arthur, alas, poor Arthur, he had worse than nothing; and as he looked across the hearth to where Edith sat, he ceased to wonder that one who for eight years had basked in the sunshine of her presence, should be as young, as vigorous and happy as Richard had appeared to him.  But he must not think of this.  He professed to be a woman-hater, he who, in his early boyhood, had counted his conquests by scores; and even if he were not, beautiful Edith Hastings could never be aught to him; and he must not suffer himself for a single moment to think how beautiful she was, still he could not help looking at her, and not a movement of her hand or a bund of her head escaped him.  But so skillfully did he manage that the deluded girl fancied he never once glanced at her, while he expressed to her his gratitude for having taken so good care of his house.

“There is one room, however, you did not open,” and the eyes of brown met now the eyes of black, but were quickly withdrawn, as he continued, “I mean the one at the head of the stairs, leading from my private sitting-room.”