"I saw you gaze, Harry," answered Edith; "and I say still, would that you had come.--Yet you were right.--It might have saved me much misery; but you were right. And now listen to the fate that is before me--to the choice I have to make, as far as I can explain it--and yet what words can I use?--But it must be done. I must not leave anything unperformed, that can prevent poor Edith Croyland from becoming an object of hatred and contempt in Henry Leyton's eyes. Little as I can do to defend myself, I must do it." She paused, gazed up on high for a moment, and then laid her hand upon his. "Henry, I do love you," she said. "Nay, more, I am yours, plighted to you by bonds I cannot and I dare not break--vows, I mean, the most solemn, as well as the ties of long affection. Yet, if I wed you, I am miserable for life. Self-reproach, eternal self-reproach--the most terrible of all things--to which no other mental or corporeal pain can ever reach, would prey upon my heart for ever, and bear me down into the grave. Peace--rest, I should have none. A voice would be for ever howling in my ear a name that would poison sleep, and make each waking moment an hour of agony. I can tell you no more on this side of the question; but so it is. It seems fated that I should bring misery one way or another upon him who is dearest to me." "I cannot comprehend," exclaimed Leyton, in surprise. "Your father has heard, I suppose, that I am here, and has menaced you with his curse." "Oh, no!" answered Edith; "far from it. He was here but now; he spoke of you, Henry, as you deserve. He told me how he had loved you and esteemed you in your young days; how, though angry at first at our rash engagement, he would have consented in the end; but--there was a fatal 'but,' Henry--an impediment not to be surmounted. I must not tell you what it is--I cannot, I dare not explain. But listen to what he said besides. You have heard one part of the choice; hear the other: it is to wed a man whom I abhor--despise--contemn--whose very look is fearful to me; to ask you to give me back the vows I plighted, in order--in order," and she spoke very low, "that I may sacrifice myself for my father, that I may linger out a few weeks of wretchedness, and then sink into the grave, which is now my only hope." "And do you ask me, Edith?" inquired Leyton, in a sad and solemn tone--"do you, Edith Croyland, really and truly ask me to give you back those vows? Speak, beloved--speak; for my heart is well nigh bursting." He paused, and she was silent; covering her eyes with her hands, while her bosom heaved, as if she were struggling for breath. "No, no, no, Harry!" she cried, at length, as if the effort were vain, "I cannot, I cannot! Oh, Harry, Harry! I wish that I were dead!" and, casting her arms round his neck, she wept upon his breast again.