“Miggie isn’t dead,” said Nina.  “She’s here, ain’t you Miggie?” and she nestled closer to Edith, who was growing strangely interested in that old house, shaded with magnolias, and in the grave of that little child.

“I came home in the spring,” said Arthur, going on with the story Nina had interrupted, “but I kept up a boyish correspondence with Nina, though my affection for her gradually weakened.  After becoming a pupil in Geneva Academy, I was exceedingly ambitious, and to stand first in my class occupied more of my thoughts than Nina Bernard.  Still, when immediately after I entered Geneva College as a sophomore, I learned that her father intended sending her to the seminary in that village, I was glad, and when I saw her again all my old affection for her returned with ten-fold vigor, and the ardor of my passion was greatly increased from the fact that other youths of my age worshipped her too, toasting the Florida rose, and quoting her on all occasions.  Griswold was one of these.  Dr. Griswold.  How deep his feelings were, I cannot tell.  I only know that he has never married, and he is three years older than myself.  We were room-mates in college, and when he saw that Nina’s preference was for me, he acted the part of a noble, disinterested friend.  Few know Griswold as he is.”

Arthur paused, and Edith fancied he was living over the past when Nina was not as she was now, but alas, he was thinking what to tell her next.  Up to this point he had narrated the facts just as they had occurred, but he could do so no longer.  He must leave out now—­evade, go round the truth, and it was hard for him to do so.

“We were engaged,” he began at last.  “I was eighteen, she fifteen.  But she looked quite as old as she does now.  Indeed, she was almost as far in advance of her years as she is now behind them.  Still we had no idea of marriage until I had been graduated, although Nina’s confidential friend, who was quite romantic, suggested that we should run away.  But from this I shrank as a most foolish act, which, if divulged, would result in my being expelled, and this disgrace I could not endure.  In order, however, to make the matter sure, I wrote to her father, asking for his daughter when I became of age.  Very impatiently I waited for his answer, which, when it came, was a positive refusal, yet couched in language so kind that none save a fool would have been angry.

“‘Nina could not marry,’ he said, ’and I must break the engagement at once.  Sometime he would tell me why, but not then—­not till I was older.’”

Accompanying this was a note to Nina, in which he used rather severer terms, forbidding her to think of marriage, and telling her he was coming immediately to take her to Europe, whither he had long contemplated going.

There was another pause, and a long blank was made in the story, which Arthur at last resumed, as follows: 

“He came for her sooner than we anticipated, following close upon the receipt of his letter, and in spite of Nina’s tears took her with him to New York, from whence early in May they started for Europe.  That was nine years ago next month, and during the vacation following I came to Shannondale and saw you, Edith, while you saw Nina’s picture.”