"George," she said gently, "I hope it will not hurt you to know that I am engaged." Great as had been the shock of Will's death, it was slight compared to the awfulness of her revelation. Of late he had felt himself on surer grounds. He hoped to win Edith. Now by one fell stroke, when his keen fine nature was vibrating with tragic sympathy, his own hopes were dashed to the ground. And Edith herself had struck the blow! Pale and drawn he looked at her with acute misery depicted in every strong feature. "Edith! it's all over then--gone forever!" he exclaimed tensely. Edith's violet eyes suffused with ready tears. "O, George, don't! don't! I never dreamed that you would take it so to heart! We shall always, _always_ be the same old friends." "Friends!" he returned bitterly. "What a mockery! But you are right--we will always be the same--_you_ a friend, and I"--he paused and swept her with a glance of passionate admiration--"and I, your abject lover!" "But, George," she began pleadingly. "Let us not discuss it, Edith," he interrupted in his old dictative way, "It is a fierce fate that struck me two fearful blows at once. But don't worry about me, little one," he added gently, "I'm a man and can bear it. Now I will go to a little woman who has less strength to overcome." As he held out his hand, his face became calm and set, and no one could have guessed the strength summoned to meet the inevitable. "Good-bye, Edith," he said, quietly. "God bless you and give you all the happiness you deserve. If you ever need a heart to share a trouble, mine is always open to you. Good-bye, little one, Good-bye." And Edith, more overcome than George, could only murmur, "Good-bye," and let him go. Tired, she dropped into a chair. Vaguely she wondered why he did not even ask who her future husband was to be. Suddenly came the echo of his "Good-bye, little one, good-bye," and the pathos of it filled her with a melancholy longing. She bowed her head in her hands, and wept. CHAPTER VI. The Glamor gone, what is left? Since the glowing publication of Will Lambert's dishonesty and consequent suicide, Alma had completely hid herself, and would see no one but George. Repeatedly the bell announced visitors, but to all she was "not at home," and the very sound of the bell filled her with new misery. For three days society had had the privilege of a new scandal for gossip. In her mind's eye, Alma pictured her acquaintances exchanging views and eagerly picking up new scraps of information. In her grief she imagined they came to her for curiosity only--all the friends of whom she proudly boasted before were distorted in her feverish brain and became prying gossips, filled with a mocking pity.