“Well, you are here, then, to say your daughter has refused me;” and as he spoke the words, he was conscious of a sharp pang which told him how hard such news would be to bear, and when Mrs. Barrett continued, “No, not to tell you that,” the revulsion of feeling was so great that, forgetful of his aversion for his prospective mother-in-law, he arose and came near to her, while she continued: “Her acceptance depends wholly upon yourself, and how you take the story I am here to tell, and which she could not write. Some years ago, when Edith was very young, scarcely fifteen, she fell in love with a well-meaning, good-looking youth, greatly her inferior in the social scale, though perfectly respectable, I believe. Of course, I opposed it, both on account of her extreme youth and because, as the daughter of a clergyman, with good family blood, she ought to do better. Without my knowledge, however, they were engaged, and would have been married if he had not been suddenly killed. It was a terrible shock to Edith, and one from which she has never quite recovered. You know something of that spasmodic affection of her throat which attacks her at times. It came upon her then, and now when an allusion is made to the violent death of any one, or she is over-excited, she experiences the same peculiar sensation, so that I try to keep her as quiet as possible, and when I found that writing to you about it, as she felt she must, was affecting her so much, I persuaded her to desist and let me come instead. She is morbidly conscientious, and would not for the world marry you until you knew all about her past life. She loved the young man with such love as very young girls feel; but that was years ago, and now I do not believe she would marry him if he were living. She bade me tell you everything, and say that if, after hearing it, you still wished her to be your wife, she would do her best to make you happy, stipulating only that no reference shall ever be made to a past which it is her duty and wish to forget.”