Amid all her suffering, there was one thought which arose perpetually before her; there was one human being on earth who would have risked his life to serve or save her, and she knew that a heart worthy of her love would hear the history of her enforced marriage with bitter disappointment and anguish. Near the home of her infancy dwelt a family of sons and daughters with whom she had been reared in habits of intimacy. Between herself and the eldest son a strong attachment had grown up; it had never been expressed in words, yet each felt as well assured of the affection of the other, as if a thousand protestations had been uttered. About the time that Mrs. Euston and her daughter left their own home to travel with their beloved invalid, Walter Atwood bade adieu to his paternal home, on a tour to Europe, where he was to complete his professional education as a medical man. Mrs. Euston's place passed into the hands of strangers, and after a few months all intercourse by letter ceased between their former friends and themselves. After the death of her son, the bereaved mother would not consent to return to their former neighborhood, and thus all trace of them was lost to the Atwoods; but Edith knew in her deep heart that Walter would return--would seek her; and it was this conviction which gave her firmness to resist so long the overtures of Barclay. Now all was at an end; another hour and the right even to think of him would no longer be hers. Her mother entered her room, folded her to her breast, and whispered, "The hour has arrived, my child. Robert is here with the clergyman. Do not keep them waiting." "I am quite ready, mother," said Edith, calmly, and she advanced without hesitation toward the door, for she heard an impatient step without, which she well knew. Barclay awaited her in the hall--he impetuously seized her hand and drew it beneath his arm. At that moment the door-bell was violently pulled, and both turned impulsively to see who made so imperious a demand for admittance. At the open door stood two figures, one of a young man, who appeared deeply agitated, for his features, beneath the light of the lamps, seemed white and rigid, as if cut from marble. Over his shoulder appeared a swarthy face, with a pair of bright, keen eyes, gleaming from beneath overhanging brows. Edith and Barclay both uttered an exclamation--but they were very different in their character. In the impulse of the moment, the former drew her hand forcibly from him who sought to retain it, and with one bound, was in the arms of the foremost stranger, as she exclaimed, "Walter--my saviour--my preserver! you have come at last!" The face of Atwood lost its unnatural rigidity as he pressed her to his heart, and said, "Thank Heaven! I am not then too late!" Barclay advanced threateningly, "What does this mean, sir? Are you aware that such conduct in my house is not to be tolerated--that you shall answer for it to me with your life?"