"I did write, my Edith. I received no letters," said Leyton, sadly; "we have both been wronged, my dear girl. My letters were returned in a cover directed in your own hand: but that trick I understand--that I see through. Oh, do not let any one deceive you again, beloved girl! You have been my chief--I might say my only thought; for the memory of you has mingled with every other idea, and made the whole your own. In the camp and in the field, I have endured and fought for Edith; in the council and in the court, I have struggled and striven for her; she has been the end and object of every effort, the ruling power of my whole mind. And now, Edith--now your soldier has returned to you. He has won every step towards the crowning reward of his endeavours; he has risen to competence, to command, to some honour in the service of his country; and he can proudly say to her he loves, Cast from you the fortune for which men dared to think I sought you--come to your lover, come to your husband, as dowerless as he was when they parted us; and let all the world see and know, that it was your love, not your wealth, I coveted--this dear hand, that dear heart, not base gold, that I desired. Oh, Edith, in Heaven's name, cast me not now headlong down from the height of hope and joy to which you have raised me, for fear a heart and spirit, too long depressed, should never find strength to rise again." Edith staggered back and sank down upon the sofa, covering her eyes, and only murmuring--"I do love you, Harry, beyond life itself.--Oh, that I were dead!--oh, that I were dead!" There was a terrible struggle in Henry Leyton's bosom. He could not understand the agitation that he witnessed; had it borne anything like the character of joy, even of surprise, all would have been clear; but it was evidently very different. It was joy overborne by sorrow. It was evidently a struggle of love with some influence, perhaps not stronger, yet terrible in its effect. He was a man of quick decision and strong resolution--qualities not always combined; and he overcame himself in a moment. He saw that he was loved--still deeply, truly loved; and that was a great point. He saw that Edith was grieved to the soul--he saw that he himself could not feel more intensely the anguish she inflicted than she did, that she was wringing her own heart while she was wringing his, and felt a double pang; and that was a strong motive for calmness, if not for fortitude. Her last words, "I wish I were dead!" restored him fully to himself; and following her to the sofa, he seated himself beside her, gently took her hand in his, and pressed his lips upon it.