“That is so like Howard,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “‘Short and crisp and right to the point.’ One would almost think he had no heart, and yet I know he has, though he is very peculiar in some things, very reserved, and very proud, and a great stickler for justice and honor. Why, I do not suppose he would say or act a thing he did not mean even to save his life or that of his best friend.” “Yes,” Edith said, idly toying with her spoon and feeling a still greater dread of this man of honor, who would not act a lie to save his life. “Yes: how old is he?” “How old? let me see. I was past eight when he was born, and I am forty-nine; that makes him almost forty-one; quite a young man still, and fine-looking, too. I dare say he will marry again;” and, glancing across the table at the beautiful lady sitting there, a curious thought sprang into Mrs. Sinclair’s mind, which, however, had no echo in Edith’s heart. She had asked Col. Schuyler’s age more for the sake of saying something than from any curiosity, and she hardly heard Mrs. Sinclair’s reply, so little did she care. His age or personal appearance was nothing to her. It was his presence in the house she dreaded, because it would awaken so many unpleasant memories, and take her back to a time she had almost forgotten in the pain which had come to her during the later years. But he was coming to-morrow, and at Mrs. Sinclair’s request she herself saw that his room and Godfrey’s were made ready, and then at another request from her mistress she practised her best instrumental pieces, for “Howard used to be fond of music, and was sure to like Miss Lyle’s playing.” “Try that little Scotch ballad, please. I thought your voice stronger when you sang it to me last. Strange that it should have left you so suddenly! What was the cause of it, did you say?” Mrs. Sinclair asked. “A sudden shock to my nerves when I was sick,” was Edith’s reply, and she felt again the iron fingers on her throat, and that choking sensation as if her heart were leaping from her mouth. Mrs. Sinclair was very fond of music, especially of singing, and knowing this, Edith had frequently sang to her some simple ballads which were written so low as to come within the compass of her weak voice, but she could not do it now, and excusing herself, she rose from the piano saying she had a headache and needed fresh air. “I have not seen mother since my return. She was out the day I called, and if you are willing I would like to go into town this morning; the ride will do me good.” Mrs. Sinclair was willing, and accordingly an hour later a handsome carriage stopped before Mrs. Dr. Barrett’s gate, and Edith went slowly up the walk toward the open door. CHAPTER VIII. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.