“Edith, listen to me;” and Mrs. Barrett spoke sternly. “It is time this folly ended. Do you think I would let you throw away the chance for which I had waited so long? Had Colonel Schuyler known the truth as you wrote it, he would not have married you, and as your mother it was my duty to interfere and save you from the consequences of your rashness. I kept your letter, and told him what I liked. I said you were in love when very young,—scarcely fifteen,—that the object of your love was greatly your inferior, and that I opposed the affair—that in spite of all you were secretly engaged, and would have been married, no doubt, had he not been suddenly killed. I told him, too, that the manner of his death was a fearful shock to your nerves, from which you had not yet recovered, as you now sometimes felt a choking sensation in your throat when reminded of the past, and asked him never to refer to it if he wished to spare you pain. He promised he would not. He did not ask the name of the young man, nor where he lived; indeed, he was not at all anxious to discuss the matter, and stopped me before I was quite done by telling me he had heard enough, and that he was satisfied. I think, however, he was annoyed, and you can judge what would have been the result had I given him your letter. Believe me, I acted for the best, and though you can now tell him, if you like, I trust you have too much good sense to do so, or at least will take time to consider. You are his wife; nothing can alter that, and the past cannot in any way affect him, provided he knows nothing of it. To tell him now would be to wound him cruelly, and my advice to you is to let the matter rest, and take the good offered to you.” Edith made no reply. Indeed, she could not have spoken to have saved her life for the choking, palpitating sensation in her throat, where her heart seemed beating wildly with such throbs of pain as she had never felt before. Gradually as her mother talked she had sank down upon the couch where she lay in a crumpled heap, her face as white as ashes, and her eyes staring wildly like the eyes of one choking to death. And when at last she spoke, it was only in a whisper that she said: “Oh, mother, you make me wish I was dead.” There was the sound of wheels upon the gravelled road, and Col. Schuyler’s voice at the door, saying the carriage was waiting. “Let it wait; I cannot go now,” Edith gasped, trying in vain to struggle to her feet, and then falling back among the cushions, weak and powerless to help herself. Opening the door Mrs. Barrett bade Col. Schuyler enter, and then closing it again drew him quickly into the little dressing-room before he caught sight of Edith lying so still and helpless in her misery.