Earle complied with her request and left her, feeling sad and depressed himself. He knew that he ought to return immediately to Wycliffe. He had been gone a long time now, and was trespassing more than he liked upon Mr. Tressalia’s good nature; but he did not feel as if he could even think of such a thing as returning and leaving Editha behind. The more he considered the matter the more inexplicable Mr. Dalton’s fierce spite against him appeared. It seemed so almost childishly unreasonable that he would not even listen while he told him of his prospects. He seemed to talk as if he was aware of something very shameful and degrading connected with him, and yet he could not understand how Mr. Dalton, here in America, could possibly know aught of his previous history, or the shadow of shame that had hung over his early life. Then, too, his declaring that “_no change of whatever nature_” in his prospects could affect his answer seemed to imply some deep and bitter personal hatred that, not being conscious of ever having done him an injury, he could not fathom. “It surely could not be,” he thought, “because Richard Forrester had so kindly remembered him at the time of his death, and it was a petty feeling of jealousy.” He had not touched the money which Editha had so nobly insisted upon investing for him. It still lay accumulating in the bank, and would remain there until the end of time for any use that he would make of it. And so, after perplexing his brain over the matter, only to become more deeply puzzled, he resolved to let it drop, hoping that everything would come out right in the end. Notwithstanding Mr. Dalton’s sarcastic and almost insulting language and manner to him, Earle did not cherish the least feeling of ill-will toward him. At the time a feeling of indignation and impatience at his injustice would momentarily arouse his hot blood, but this soon passed, and he sincerely pitied him for being the slave of such unholy passions as he manifested. The next morning, feeling very uneasy and apprehensive of he knew not what, he called, as Editha had desired. He could not shake off the feeling that he was about to meet some dreadful impending fate; it seemed almost as if a voiceless, wordless warning was impressing him, and he found himself involuntarily repeating the words of one who said: “Often do the spirits Of great events stride on before the events, And in to-day already walks to-morrow.” He found Editha calm, but looking weary and very sad, as if the struggle of deciding had been too much for her strength. She came and went toward him, looking so pale that she seemed more like some beautiful spirit about to fade from his sight than a woman whom he longed to call “wife.” “I have decided, Earle,” she said, the tears shining in her eyes as she held out both hands to him in greeting. He took them and drew her toward him, searching her fair face with his anxious eyes.