How he rattled on, his fresh young face glowing and lighting up with his excitement, and how intently Edith listened and watched the play of his fine features, and admired his boyish beauty! Surely in him there was nothing but goodness and truth, and as she looked at him she felt glad that his young life was spared, though she could not understand why her husband must have been sacrificed for him. Once in her bitterness she had felt that she hated Godfrey Schuyler, but she did not hate him now, and as she walked slowly with him toward the house, she would have given much to have been as fresh, and frank, and open as he was, instead of living the lie she was living. And to what intent? What good had the deception ever done her? What good _could_ it do her, and why continue it longer? Why not be just what she was, with no concealment hanging over her, and startling her ofttimes with a dread of discovery? Why not tell Godfrey all about _herself_ just as he had told her of _himself_? Surely, his recent talk with her would warrant such confidence, and why not commence at once a new life by openness and sincerity, even though she lost her place by it? “I’ll do it and brave my mother, who alone has stood in my way so long,” she thought; and she began: “Mr. Schuyler”—but before she could say more, he interrupted her with: “Don’t call me that. I’m too much of a boy. Call me Godfrey, please, unless the name is too suggestive of ‘Godfrey’s Cordial,’ in which case say Schuyler, but pray leave off the Mister till my whiskers will at least cast a shadow on the wall. Why, I dare say I shall call you by your first name yet. You cannot be much my senior. How old are you, Miss Lyle?” It was a question which a little later in life, when more accustomed to the world and its usages, Godfrey would not have asked; but Edith answered unhesitatingly; “I am twenty-seven.” “Zounds!” said Godfrey. “You don’t look it. I did not imagine you more than twenty. Why, you might almost be my mother! No, it will never do to call you Edith. Father’s eyebrows would actually meet in the centre at such audacity on my part; that’s a trick he has of scowling when disagreeably surprised. Notice it sometimes, please. The only wrinkle in his face is that valley between his eyes.” They were in the hall by this time, and bowing to her voluble acquaintance, Edith passed on to her room, where for half an hour or more she sat thinking of the strange Providence which had brought her so near to her past life, and wondering, too, what the result would be, and if she should tell Godfrey as she had fully intended to do, when he interrupted her with his tide of talk. It did not seem as easy to do it now as it had a little while ago; the good opportunity was gone and might not return.