“What a gentle mistress Wycliffe will have,” Earle said, fondly; “and you will not refuse to go back with me this time?” “No, Earle; only it must not be at present, you know,” she returned, with some sadness. “I do know, dear, and of course shall remain as long as Mr. Dalton may need either you or me; but, oh! my darling, you cannot tell how thankful I am that I am not doomed to spend my life in gloom and alone; everything has looked so dreary and desolate to me until to-day.” Editha did not reply, but she laid her cheek against his in mute sympathy, and with a sigh that told him she had also experienced something of the desolateness of which he spoke. “You have not seen Mr. Tressalia yet, I suppose?” she said, after a few minutes of silence. “No, dear, I have not seen him since the day I had such a struggle with my selfishness, and sent him hither to win you and be happy if he could.” His arm tightened around the slight form at his side as he said this, and Editha knew how he must have suffered in that struggle to renounce her so utterly. “Did _you_ send him to me, Earle?” she asked, with a startled look. “Yes, dear; Paul Tressalia is one of earth’s noblest men. I believed you lost to me forever. You once told me if there had been no Earle Wayne in the world, you might have loved him. I wanted you to be happy—I wanted him to know something of the comfort of life, and I knew of no one whom I would rather have win a sister of mine than him. It was a miserable kind of an arrangement all round, but I knew of nothing better.” Earle spoke with a tinge of the bitterness he had experienced at the time, as if even the memory of it was exceedingly painful. “Dear Earle, you might have known it could not be,” she whispered, sliding one hand into his and dropping her flushed face upon his shoulder. “Never—not even if our relations had remained as we have believed them to be?” “Never,” she replied, decidedly. “I _could_ not change, even though I believed I was sinning every day of my life, and I would not wrong him by accepting his love when I had none to give him in return.” “Editha, my beloved, I should crown you with passionflowers and snow-drops for your devotion and faithfulness,” Earle breathed, in low, intense tones, and deeply moved by her confession. “Hush!” she said, releasing herself from his encircling arms, her face like a carnation; “there is the bell—that is Mr. Tressalia; he has heard of the arrival of a steamer, and has come to see if you are here;” and she arose to go, feeling that she could not be present while they met. Earle arose, too, surmising her thought, but gently detained her a moment longer. “My love—my Editha—my ‘_happiness_,’ you have not yet told me that you are glad to be my wife, and go home with me to Wycliffe; let me hear you say it once,” he pleaded, with grave earnestness, as he studied the beautiful face intently.