known in the village that a stranger lay sick of typhus fever at Grassy Spring, which with common consent was shunned as if the deadly plague had been rioting there.  Years before the disease had raged with fearful violence in the town, and many a fresh mound was reared in the graveyard, and many a hearth-stone desolated.  This it was which struck a panic to the hearts of the inhabitants when they knew the scourge was again in their midst, and save the inmates of the house, and Edith Hastings, none came to Dr. Griswold’s aid.  At first Richard refused to let the latter put herself in the way of danger, but for once Edith asserted her right to do as she pleased, and declared that she would share Nina’s labors.  So for many weary days and nights those two young girls hovered like angels of mercy around the bed where the sick man tossed from side to side, while the fever burned more and more fiercely in his veins until his reason was dethroned, and a secret told which otherwise would have died with him.  Gradually the long hidden love for Nina showed itself, and Edith, who alone could comprehend the meaning of what he said and did, saw how a strong, determined man can love, even when there is no hope.

“Little wounded dove,” he called the golden-haired maiden, who bent so constantly over him, caressing his burning face with her cool, soft hands, passing her snowy fingers through his disordered hair, and suffering him to kiss her as he often did, but insisting always that Miggie should be kissed also, and Edith, knowing that what was like healing to the sick man would be withheld unless she, too, submitted, would sometimes bow her graceful head and receive upon her brow the token of affection.

“You must hug Miggie, too,” Nina said to him one day, when he had held her slight form for a moment to his bosom.  “She’s just as good to you as I am.”

“Nina,” said Edith, “Dr. Griswold does not love me as he does you, and you must not worry him so.  Don’t you see it makes him worse?” and lifting the hair she pointed to the drops of perspiration standing upon his forehead.

This seemed to satisfy Nina, while at the same time her darkened mind must have caught a glimmer of the truth, for her manner changed perceptibly, and for a day or so she was rather shy of Dr. Griswold.  Then the mood changed again, and to the poor dying man was vouchsafed a glimpse of what it might have been to be loved by Nina Bernard.

“Little sunbeam—­little clipped-winged bird—­little pearl,” were the terms of endearment he lavished upon her, as, with his feeble arm about her, he told her one night how he loved her.  “Don’t go Edith,” he said, as he saw her stealing from the room; “sit down here beside me and listen to what I have to say.”

Edith obeyed, and taking her hand and Nina’s in his, as if the touch of them both would make him strong to unburden his mind, he began: 

“Let me call you Edith, while I’m talking, for the sake of one who loves you even as I love Nina,”