During Yoletta's seclusion, my education was not allowed to suffer, her place as instructress having been taken by Edra. I was pleased with this arrangement, thinking to derive some benefit from it, beyond what she might teach me; but very soon I was forced to abandon all hope of communicating with the imprisoned girl through her friend and jailer. Edra was much disturbed at the suggestion; for I did venture to suggest it, though in a tentative, roundabout form, not feeling sure of my ground: previous mistakes had made me cautious. Her manner was a sufficient warning; and I did not broach the subject a second time. One afternoon, however, I met with a great and unexpected consolation, though even this was mixed with some perplexing matters. One day, after looking long and earnestly into my face, said my gentle teacher to me; "Do you know that you are changed? All your gay spirits have left you, and you are pale and thin and sad. Why is this?" My face crimsoned at this very direct question, for I knew of that change in me, and went about in continual fear that others would presently notice it, and draw their own conclusions. She continued looking at me, until for very shame I turned my face aside; for if I had confessed that separation from Yoletta caused my dejection, she would know what that feeling meant, and I feared that any such premature declaration would be the ruin of my prospects. "I know the reason, though I ask you," she continued, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You are grieving for Yoletta--I saw it from the first. I shall tell her how pale and sad you have grown--how different from what you were. But why do you turn your face from me?" I was perplexed, but her sympathy gave me courage, and made me determined to give her my confidence. "If you know," said I, "that I am grieving for Yoletta, can you not also guess why I hesitate and hide my face from you?" "No; why is it? You love me also, though not with so great a love; but we _do_ love each other, Smith, and you can confide in me?" I looked into her face now, straight into her transparent eyes, and it was plain to see that she had not yet guessed my meaning. "Dearest Edra," I said, taking her hand, "I love you as much as if one mother had given us birth. But I love Yoletta with a different love--not as one loves a sister. She is more to me than any one else in the world; so much is she that life without her would be a burden. Do you not know what that means?" And then, remembering Yoletta's words on the hills, I added: "Do you not know of more than one kind of love?" "No," she answered, still gazing inquiringly into my face. "But I know that your love for her so greatly exceeds all others, that it is like a different feeling. I shall tell her, since it is sweet to be loved, and she will be glad to know it." "And after you have told her, Edra, shall you make known her reply to me?"