It was not often that he had the opportunity, for she was generally the happiest and gayest of maidens, and, being an only child, no cloud had ever been allowed to overshadow her. But Mr. Dalton had been extremely annoyed at the scene in the court-room, deeming it vulgar in the extreme to be made so conspicuous before the rabble, and he had uttered words sharper than had ever been addressed to the petted child before during all her life. But Editha was true and loyal to the core, and, when once she had made a friend, no adversity could turn her from that friend; and her whole nature had arisen to arms against the cruel injustice and wretched fate which had condemned one so noble and good as Earle to durance vile. Her father’s laugh capped the climax; the excitement, the pain in her heart, and, above all, his last insinuation, had been almost more than she could bear; but when his hearty laugh rang out so full of mocking amusement, she could endure no more, and, girl fashion, she burst into tears, believing herself the most deeply injured and abused maiden in existence. “Come, come, pet, don’t take it so much to heart; but in the future try and be a little less demonstrative,” Mr. Dalton said, somewhat moved by her tears. But Edith was deeply wounded; her tears must have their way now, and not another word was spoken during their drive. Once at home, she darted into the house and up to her own room, where, after she had wept her weep out alone, and something of the burden from her heart, she sat down to think. Her cheeks burned hotly every time she recalled her father’s light words. “Earle Wayne my lover!” she murmured, with tremulous lips, and burying her face in her hands, with a feeling of shame that she should dare to think of it, when Earle, doubtless, had never dreamed of such a thing himself. Nevertheless, the words possessed a strange fascination for her. When she knelt in prayer and spoke his name, claiming Heaven’s tenderest care for the smitten one, the burning flush returned to her cheek, the thrill to her heart. “Earle Wayne my lover!” she repeated, softly, as she laid her head upon her pillow, and her dreams were full of a manly face, with deep, dark eyes, in which shone a light tender and true, with lips that wore a smile as sweet and gentle as a woman’s, but such as no woman’s ever wore for her. She still seemed to feel the clasp of his hand, the charm of his low spoken words, and the music of his voice and, when at length she awoke with the break of day, she was gay, careless Editha Dalton no longer. A graver, quieter light looked out of her sunny eyes as she arose and dressed; lines of firmness and decision had settled about the smiling, happy mouth, and all the world had a deeper meaning for her than ever before. “Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet.”