“Now, Howard, please lay me down, and do not come again till I send for you;” he went away, but did not stay till she sent for him, lest it should be too long. Every day he went to see her, and tried to seem natural, and once, when she asked why he looked so thin and haggard, he answered evasively and said he had a cold, and then went straight to the cemetery, and, standing at Abelard’s grave, read the inscription aloud: “James A. Lyle. Born in Alnwick, England. Died June 18th, 18—. Aged 23.” Then he examined the stone and tried if it were firm in its place, and kicked the snow and dead leaves from a tuft of daisies, which looked so fresh and green that he stooped to examine it, and found to his surprise a tiny white blossom hidden under the snow and the pile of leaves and straw which Gertie had put there in the fall to protect the plants. “Daisies under the snow on _his_ grave. It is very remarkable,” he said, as he picked the little flower, and going back to the house he put it in some water, and set it on the table in his room, where he watched it all day long until it grew to be almost a phantom and he felt he could endure it no longer. He must speak to Edith or go mad himself. She was much better now, and he would watch with her that night, and have it out when there was no fear of interruption. But he did not tell her of his intention lest she should oppose it, and she supposed her attendant was to be Gertie, who frequently slept in the room with her. Edith’s habit was to sleep from nine to twelve, but this night it was nearly one when she awoke and looked about her. The gas was turned down and the bright winter moonlight came through the window and fell in a sheet upon the floor, making the room almost as light as day, and showing plainly the figure sitting so motionless in the chair at the foot of the bed. It was not Gertie, and Edith’s heart beat quickly when she saw it was her husband, and thought: “I must tell him,—I am able to bear it now.” He knew she was awake, but waited for her to speak, trembling in every joint as he wondered how he should begin to say that which he was there to say, and wondering, too, how she would receive it. He had the little daisy on the table near him, and when she stirred he took it in his hand and fancied that it had grown to be the size of the magnolia blossoms he saw once in the gardens at the South. His mind was surely getting disordered, when Edith spoke and said: “Howard, is that you? Are you watching with me?” “Yes, Edith;” and he drew his chair closer to her, while she went on: “Howard, do you love me, really, truly love me?” “Yes,” he answered, “I really, truly love you. Why do you ask me, Edith?” “Because, Howard, because I,—I,—wanted to be sure. I’ve,—there is something I must; oh, Howard, you do,—love me,—you do.”