They walked the paths together, Edith and Star, arm in arm; they sat in the cooling nooks, and whisperingly conversed; they let the wind play with their locks, like playful fairies; they saw, they heard, they sang, they laughed. But still, to Edith, there was that mystery ever hanging over her--a blot to everything that should entrance her--a dim, dark, cold, benumbing longing that paints frightful pictures from a palpitating heart that gets no response to its secret throbs. Weary, worn out, lagging, spiritless, because of her long illness and worry over late happenings among her father's unfaithful employes, Edith got no comfort now out of her home, or its surroundings. Pale still, and nervous, her spirits ever flagged, even under the promptings of her dear friend Star, who had been resorting to all her charms and graces to give pleasure to the sick young lady that she might be diverted from her moody spells. Edith was bright at times, and laughed and chatted like a child under Star's cheerful influence; but more often she was melancholy, and seemed never to be reaching that time when the shadow of her malady would fall off. Music had no charms for her, nor books, nor young company. Life was lifeless to her. The mansion was a dreary castle. Her days were spent in wishing for night, and nights in wishing for morning. All her mother's endearments, all her father's love, all of Star's sweet companionship, were alike to her--unconsoling. The mother was in despair, the father grief stricken, but Star, of all of them, had hope. "Edith," said Star, this day, while standing by the pond watching the leaping fountain and playful golden fish, and noting how quiet Edith was. "I wrote to Mr. Winthrope yesterday." "Oh, Star," said Edith, with a deprecating frown, "I hope you have not gone and forgotten yourself to such an extent that you have written first?" "Forgot myself, Edith? Why, bless your heart, no; he wrote me first," replied Star, with a merry laugh. "Wrote first?" asked Edith, in surprise. "Yes; he just did write first; and I told him that he was real mean in not writing sooner," said Star. "What did he say?" asked Edith, gazing vacantly into the water. "About all he said was asking about your health. It is mean in him, I repeat, that he said no more. He said, though, that when your father was in New York, he told him you were fast improving." "What was your answer, Star?" "Oh, goodness! I wrote six pages, about everything, almost, and informed him that--" "Now, Star; you didn't write anything that would be indiscreet, did you?" "Why, deary, no, of course not; I only told him that you--" "Star, don't tell me that you have violated my confidence?" "I will not say what I wrote, Edith, if your are not more attentive. I said that--" "Star! Star!" said Edith, with tears glistening in her eyes; "do not tell me that you have broken your pledge; if you do, I shall never--no--go on; what did you tell him?"