"Of course he would," Victor answered, bitterly. "The older a man grows, the younger the girl he selects, and it's a wonder he didn't ask you first." "Supposing he had?" returned Edith, bending over a geranium to hide her agitation. "Supposing he had, and it was I instead of Grace to whom he is engaged." "Preposterous!" Victor exclaimed. "You could not do such a thing in your right senses. Why, I'd rather see you dead than married to your father. I believe I'd forbid the banns myself," and Victor strode from the room, banging the door behind him, by way of impressing Edith still more forcibly with the nature of his opinion. Edith was disappointed. She had expected sympathy at least from Victor, had surely thought he would he pleased to have her for his mistress, and his words, "I would rather see you dead," hurt her cruelly. Perhaps every body would say so. It was an unnatural match, this union of autumn and spring, but she must do something. Any thing was preferable to the aimless, listless life she was leading now. She could not be any more wretched than she was, and she might perhaps be happier when the worst was over and she knew for certain that she was Richard's wife. HIS WIFE! It made her faint and sick just to say those two words. What then would the reality be? She loved him dearly as a guardian, a brother, and she might in time love him as her husband. Such things had been. They could be again. Aye, more, they should he, and determining henceforth to keep her own counsel, and suffer Victor to believe it was Grace instead of herself, she ran into the garden, where she knew Richard was walking, and stealing to his side, caught his arm ere he was aware of her presence. "Darling, is it you?" he asked, and his dark face became positively beautiful with the radiant love-light shining out all over it. Every day the hope grew stronger that the cherished object of his life might be realized. Edith did not avoid him as he feared she would. On the contrary she rather sought his society than otherwise, never, however, speaking of the decision. It was a part of the agreement that they should not talk of it until the four weeks were gone, the weeks which to Richard dragged so slowly, while to Edith they flew on rapid wing; and with every rising sun, she felt an added pang as she thought how soon the twelfth of May would be there. It wanted but four days of it when she joined him in the garden, and for the first time since their conversation Richard alluded to it by asking playfully, "what day of the month it was?" "The eighth;" and Edith's eyes closed tightly over the tears struggling to gain egress, then with a mighty effort she added, laughingly,