When he entered, she arose to meet him with her customary frankness. "I have been waiting for you to call this past week as usual, but as you didn't come I felt at liberty to send for you." "Always, Edith," he said pressing her hand. "At any time or place, I am at your command. No one knows that better than yourself." The meaning of his direct gaze was only too positive, and Edith felt suddenly overcome with pity and constraint. How could she tell him of her engagement, when he did not even suspect it? She colored hotly and dropped her gaze. "My absence this week has been unavoidable," George continued, as they both sat down opposite to one another. "You have heard of my cousin, Will Lambert, and I believe you have met his wife occasionally?" "O, yes, only a week ago I attended an afternoon affair at her home. What a pretty, attractive woman she is!" Walter's face became grave, and his eyes looked unutterable sadness. "O, Edith, if you could only see her now! Poor little wreck of womanhood! She is undergoing unbearable sorrow!" Edith's eyes shot instant interest. "O, tell me her trouble," she exclaimed quickly, forgetting the object of her bidding him to call. "Her husband got into pretty deep trouble, and to avoid her going through the long trial and imprisonment, he committed suicide by drowning." "Yes," George continued, "he has left it to me to try to hush it up so that his wrong-doing wouldn't become public gossip. For a week Eve tried every sort of pleading and bribery, but all of no avail,--to-morrow's newspapers will print the whole story, with as much exaggeration as they can possibly invent. Poor little Alma will be more distracted than ever!" "O, how cruel it all seems!" exclaimed Edith, entering into his mood of passionate pity. "How I wish I could go to her!" George's eyes flashed understanding. "And why not? A woman needs a woman's sympathy. She has no woman relative and her mother died five years ago." "I will go to her," said Edith with calm resolve. "I'm not really a friend, but we can always come very near to a heart that is wrecked by despair." "You could, Edith, but not everyone," he said with warm tenderness. "I have been with her every evening since it happened,--that accounts for my absence here. She clings to me in the most childishly helpless manner. I promised to go to-night, too. I would not disappoint her even at the sacrifice of an evening with you. You realize that sacrifice, Edith? I missed you, to go to one in sorrow. When may I call again?" His tone was so tender and expectant, that Edith stood completely abashed, trying to find words to tell him her secret which would separate them forever. "Why, George, I want always to see you," she stammered. Her eyes drooped, not daring to meet his searching gaze, "But before you go, I ought to tell you something that may change your desire to come." "Nothing could do that," he said fervently. She felt his tone and it spurred her to frankness.