“You cannot long be without them, with such nobility and resolution in your soul,” Editha answered, her face glowing with admiration for him, “and you may count me the warmest of them all until you find a better.” She involuntarily held out her hand as if to seal the compact as she spoke. He grasped it eagerly, his whole face luminous with sudden joy; his breath came quickly, his broad breast rose and fell, his eyes sought hers with an intensity of expression that made her vail them with her white lids. She did not know how she was tempting him—she could not know how he had grown to love her during the past six years, and how sweet and cheering her sympathy was to him just now, when he felt himself so friendless and alone in the great cold world. “God bless you, Editha! If—I——” He had begun to speak in low, concentrated tones, but now he stopped short, as if some great inward shock had suddenly cut off his power of speech. He shut his teeth tightly together and drew in his breath with a quick gasp; the great veins in his forehead filled and stood out full and purple, and his hands locked themselves together with the intensity of some deep, inward emotion. One quick, searching look Edith flashed up at him, and then her eyes fell again, a rosy flush rising to her very brow at what she had seen on his face. “I beg your pardon,” he said at length, nervously pushing back the hair from his brow; “I fear you will think me very thoughtless and selfish to weary you thus with my troubles.” “No, Earle, I—am _glad_ that you think me worthy of your confidence,” she answered, softly. He looked at her in surprise. How exceedingly beautiful she was, sitting there with her downcast eyes, the lovely color in her face, and the womanly sympathy beaming in every feature. “Worthy!” he repeated. “Yes, worthy,” she said, her lips relaxing just a trifle into a tremulous smile. “I would like to be your friend in all your troubles—maybe I could help you if you would trust me enough to tell me of them. I used to think there was no one like you when I was a wild and impulsive girl, and you were with Uncle Richard—you were always so upright so strong, and self-reliant.” “You _used_ to think that of me, Editha?” he said, flushing again and trembling. If she had known how her words moved him—but she did not dream of his love for her. He began to grow dizzy with the new, delicious hope that seized him as she spoke. Could it be that this fair girl had learned to love him? He had thought of her night and day, at his work and in his lonely cell, and her image would be stamped indelibly on his heart as long as he should live. But he had no right to speak one word of it to her now—his disgrace clung to him, and would clog him, perhaps, for long years.