“Really, Editha, I think I must insist——” “Please don’t insist upon anything, papa,” returned the girl, wilfully; “if you are so weary, go _you_ back to the Grand Union, and Mr. Tressalia will bring me by and by.” She was determined that she would not be walked off thus summarily like a little girl in petticoats, and Mr. Dalton had to beat a retreat. “I think I will go for a smoke, then,” he said, as he turned and walked abruptly away. Paul Tressalia wondered what it all meant. The man had betrayed his great agitation only upon the mention of Madam Sylvester’s name. Did he know her, and if so was there enmity between them? Was that the reason of his sudden flight from Newport? His manner was certainly very strange, and he had evidently intended to get Editha away before any meeting occurred between her and madam, but he could not very well urge the matter any further without betraying himself, and so he had walked away in no enviable frame of mind. Editha watched him curiously until he passed from sight, then turning to her companion, she said: “I do not believe papa is feeling very well; perhaps I ought to have gone.” “Shall I take you to him?” Paul asked, considerately. “Not just yet. I would like to see Madam Sylvester a moment, if we can find her; but first tell me”—and the beautiful face instantly lost all its lovely color—“have you heard again from—from—Earle?” “Yes; I had a letter day before yesterday, and he is not very well, he writes; the doctor does not think the climate exactly agrees with him,” Mr. Tressalia answered, his own face growing grave as he saw the brightness die out of hers. Editha sighed, and the old grieved look returned to her lips. “Would you like to read his letter? I have it with me,” he asked, considerately. “No, no; I could not do that. Tell me, please, what you like about him; but I cannot quite bear to read his own words just yet,” she said, with unutterable sadness. “My poor little friend, your lot is a hard one,” he said, softly. “Don’t pity me, please—life is hard enough for us all, I think,” she returned, quickly and bitterly. “Earle thinks he will have to have a change as soon as he can get away,” Mr. Tressalia continued, “and asks if I will resume the charge of Wycliffe for him. Shall I tell you all that he says about it?” “Yes, yes; go on,” the poor girl said, eagerly, though every word was fresh torture to her. “He says he cannot live longer away from you, Editha; it is killing him, and he _must_ come where he can see you once in awhile. He writes, ‘Ask her if I may. I will say nothing that shall wound her. I will be firm and strong; but, oh! I am so homesick for a look into her eyes, for a clasp of her hand. Ask her, Paul, if I may come.’”