He had discovered, if others had not, that Paul Tressalia was no longer “heir to great expectations,” and he was not at all anxious now either that Editha should marry. She was ill, failing daily and hourly, as every one could see, and many predicted a rapid decline and an early death unless some change for the better occurred soon. Mr. Dalton shook his head sadly and sighed heavily, as a fond and anxious parent should do, whenever interviewed upon the subject, but secretly he was calculating his chances of falling heir to her snug fortune. “She is my daughter,” he would say to himself, rubbing his hands together in that peculiar way he had. “If she dies unmarried and without a will—and I don’t think she has thought of such a thing as that—of course, being her nearest blood relation, I shall inherit;” and he always ended these confidential cogitations with a chuckle, accompanied by a look of infinite cunning. So it will be readily seen that Mr. Dalton had no idea of encouraging Mr. Tressalia as a suitor, especially as he could no longer offer her any peculiar advantages. But that young man was shocked at the change in the fair girl. The laughing eyes were sad and lusterless now; the rounded cheeks had fallen away, leaving great hollows where before had been a delicate sea-shell bloom; the scarlet lips, which had ever been wreathed in sunniest smiles, wore a mournful droop, and were sad, blue, and drawn with pain. She greeted him, however, with more than her accustomed cordiality, and listened eagerly while he told her all about Earle and the magnificent inheritance that had fallen to him. Any one who could tell her aught concerning her dear one was doubly welcome. She was never weary of hearing about Wycliffe, and all the noble ancestors of the noble house of Vance. She took a strange, sad pleasure in the mournful history of the unfortunate Marion, and Paul Tressalia, seeing it, gratified her as far as he was able, though he could but realize that he was making no progress in her affections. “I am afraid Newport does not agree with you, Miss Dalton,” he remarked one day, as he came upon her sitting listless and dejected under a tree near the sea-shore, her eyes fixed dreamily upon the restless waves, a look of pain contracting her fair forehead. “I do not enjoy Newport,” she said, with a sigh; “at least the gay hurry and bustle that we are constantly in.” “Then why not go to some more quiet place? Why not go to some farm among the mountains, where the air is drier and purer? I do not like to see you looking so ill,” he returned, with visible anxiety. “Papa is not content unless he can be where there is considerable excitement,” she answered, wearily; “and I don’t know as it matters much,” she added, with a far-away look.