Edith knew that, but she would not hearken for a moment to Victor’s suggestion.  It made her too unhappy, and for three days she had a fair opportunity of ascertaining the nature of her feelings toward Arthur St. Claire, for nothing is more conducive to the rapid development of love, than a spice of jealousy lest another has won the heart we so much covet.

The next day, the fourth after Arthur’s departure, she asked Victor to ride with her on horseback, saying the fresh March wind would do her good.  It was nearly sunset when they started, and, as there was a splendid moon, they continued their excursion to quite a distance, so that it was seven ere they found themselves at the foot of the long hill which wound past Collingwood and on to Grassy Spring.  Half way up the hill, moving very slowly, as if the horses were jaded and tired, was a traveling carriage, which both Edith and Victor recognized at once as belonging to Arthur St. Claire.

“Let’s overtake them,” said Edith, and chirruping to Bedouin, she was soon so near to the carriage that her quick ear caught the sound of a low, sweet voice singing a German air, with which she herself had always been familiar, though when she first learned it she could not tell.

It was one of those old songs which Rachel had called weird and wild, and now, as she listened to the plaintive tones, they thrilled on every nerve with a strange power as if it were a requiem sung by the dead over their own buried hopes.  Nearer and nearer Bedouin pressed to the slowly moving vehicle, until at last she was nearly even with it.

“Look, Miss Edith!” and Victor grasped her bridle rein, directing her attention to the arms folded upon the window and the girlish head resting upon the arms, in the attitude of a weary child.

One little ringless, blue-veined hand was plainly discernible in the bright moonlight, and Edith thought how small and white and delicate it was.

“Let’s go on,” she whispered, and they dashed past the carriage just as Arthur leaned forward to see who they were.

“That was a young lady,” said Victor coming up with Edith, who was riding at a headlong speed.

“Yes, I knew it,” and Edith again touched Bedouin with her whip as if the fast riding suited well her tumultuous emotions.

“His bride?” said Victor, interrogatively, and Edith replied, “Very likely, Victor,” and she stopped Bedouin short.  “Victor, don’t tell any one of the lady in the carriage until it’s known for certain that there is one at Grassy Spring.”

Victor could see no reason for this request, but it was sufficient for him that Edith had made it, and he promised readily all that she desired.  They were at home by this time, and complaining of a headache Edith excused herself earlier than usual and stole up to her chamber where she could he alone to wonder who was the visitor at Grassy Spring.  It might be a bride, and it might be Nina.