“You know, Lionel, that my love is yours always—that it has been yours for a long long time,” said Edith, in accents that trembled a little in spite of herself. “But I never received any letter from you after that last one dated from some far-away town in America.” “No letter!” exclaimed Lionel. “Not one explaining my reasons for releasing you from your engagement?” “Never a single line, Lionel.” “But I gave the letter into your uncle’s hands,” returned Lionel. “He promised faithfully that he would give it you.” “He did not give it me,” answered Edith. “Perhaps he kept it back because he thought it better that I should not see it.” “He had no right to do anything of the kind,” said Lionel, sternly. “The letter was sacredly entrusted to him, and ought as sacredly to have been delivered to you. “Lionel, my uncle is no longer with us,” said Edith, gently. “You and I are together again. That redeems all. Let us never say another word about the letter.” “What a villain, what a mean wretch, you must have thought me,” cried Lionel impulsively, “to break off my engagement without assigning you any reason! Without even a single word of explanation!” “I thought you nothing of the kind,” said Edith, with decision. “I knew you too well not to feel sure that you must have good and sufficient reasons for acting as you did. Although you did not tell me what those reasons were—whatever may have been my disappointment at your silence—my faith in you never wavered.” “But when weeks and months passed away, and you never heard from me——” “I felt then that all was over between us; felt it in a despairing, hopeless kind of way. But I cherished no resentment against you—none.” “But surely your uncle and aunt had some explanation to offer?” “They told me that, through the failure of a bank, you had lost the whole of your fortune, and that, consequently, you had resigned all pretensions to my hand.” “And you?” “I thought that you might have called to see me; or, at least, have written to me. I could not understand why, if you still continued to care for me, you should choose to give me up simply because you had lost your fortune.” “You could not understand it?” “Indeed I could not. And I fail to understand it now. If you were poor, I was rich. What greater happiness could I have than to endow you with my plenty? When I gave you my love, it meant that I gave you everything I could call mine.” “You look at the question from a woman’s point of view, Edith: I, from a man’s.” “If I had lost my fortune as you lost yours, would you have given me up?” asked Edith. “Certainly not.” “Nor I you. With me, to love and to be loved is everything. In comparison with that all else is as nothing.”