“That is right, and now there is one thing more. In the private drawer of my safe there is a sealed package belonging to Earle, and which he committed to my care for the time of his imprisonment. This I also give into your hands to keep for him, and when you settle the money upon him you can return it to him; and _under no circumstances allow the seal to be broken_.” “Certainly not. I accept this as a sacred trust, and I will be faithful to the letter.” “Thank you, dear; that is all, I believe; and now”—with a yearning look into the sweet, flushed face—“you will not forget ‘Uncle Richard’—you will always think kindly of him?” “As if I could ever think of you in any other way,” Editha said, reproachfully, and with starting tears. “My life has not been all smooth, darling. In my younger days there were things that happened which I could not help and yet—and yet”—with a shadow of pain on his brow—“perhaps I _might_ have helped them in a degree if I had tried. But if—if you should ever hear anything that seems strange or wrong to you, you will try not to blame me—you will love me still?” he pleaded, yearningly. “Uncle Richard, you cannot ever have done anything so very wrong. You must not talk so; if you do, I shall not be able to listen to you calmly. I shall break down in spite of myself, and I must not for your sake,” Editha said, brokenly, and feeling as if her heart must burst with its weight of sorrow. “Well, well, dear, I will say no more, and it is pleasant to know you trust me so. You cannot know _how_ much I have always loved you. You have been like a little green oasis in the desert of my heart; always a source of comfort and joy to me. I hope, my darling, that nothing will ever cloud your future; but if there should, you will still love and think of me kindly—you will not blame Uncle Richard for anything?” he still persisted, as if some great and sudden fear had overtaken him at the last moment. “No—no, indeed. I cannot bear it. How strangely you talk!” the fair girl said, deeply distressed by his words, and fearing that death was taking the strength and vigor of his mind. “I know—I know; I ought not to trouble you thus; but”—with a deep-drawn sigh—“there are so many sad things in life. God bless you, my darling—my _own_ darling—God ever bless and keep you from all sorrow and harm.” He lay silent for several minutes, looking up into her face, as if he knew it was the last time, and he must fix its every lineament upon his memory before the great unknown wrapped him in its mystic folds. At length he whispered: “Now kiss me, dear, and go out into the fresh air. I have kept you too long; your cheeks are pale, your eyes are dim. I fear I have been selfish to keep you here so much.” Editha stopped with a sob and kissed him upon his lips, his cheek, his eyes, his hair, with passionate fervor, and then went away, glad to be alone for a little while, that she might give vent unrestrained to her nearly breaking heart.