"I have merely to ask questions," replied Digby; "yet, perhaps that may be the best commencement. I am aware, my dear Miss Croyland, that your sister has loved, and has been as deeply beloved as woman ever was by man. I know the whole tale; but what I seek now to learn is this--does she or does she not retain the affection of her early youth? Do former days and former feelings dwell in her heart as still existing things? or are they but as sad memories of a passion passed away, darkening instead of lighting the present,--or perhaps as a tie which she would fain shake off, and which keeps her from a brighter fate hereafter?" He spoke solemnly, earnestly, with his whole manner changed; and Zara gazed in his face eagerly and inquiringly as he went on, her face glowing, but her look becoming less sad, till it beamed with a warm and relieved smile at the close. "I was right, and she was wrong"--she said, at length, as if speaking to herself. "But to answer your question, Sir Edward Digby," she continued, gravely. "You little know woman's heart, or you would not put it--I mean the heart of a true and unspoiled woman, a woman worthy of the name. When she loves, she loves for ever--and it is only when death or unworthiness takes from her him she loves, that love becomes a memory. You cannot yet judge of Edith, and therefore I forgive you for asking such a thing; but she is all that is noble, and good, and bright; and Heaven pardon me, if I almost doubt that she was meant for happiness below--she seems so fitted for a higher state!" The tears rose in her eyes as she spoke; but Sir Edward feared interruption, and went on, asking, somewhat abruptly perhaps, "What made you say, just now, that you were right and she was wrong?" "Because she thought that he was dead, and that you came to announce it to her," Zara replied. "You spoke of him in the past, you always said, 'he was;' you said not a word of the present." "Because I knew not what were her present feelings," answered Digby. "She has never written--she has never answered one letter. All his have been returned in cold silence to his agents, addressed in her own hand. And then her father wrote to----" "Stay, stay!" cried Zara, putting her hand to her head--"addressed in her own hand? It must have been a forgery! Yet, no--perhaps not. She wrote to him twice; once just after he went, and once in answer to a message. The last letter I gave to the gardener myself, and bade him post it. That, too, was addressed to his agent's house. Can they have stopped the letters and used the covers?" "It is probable," answered Digby, thoughtfully. "Did she receive none from him?" "None--none," replied Zara, decidedly. "All that she has ever heard of him was conveyed in that one message; but she doubted not, Sir Edward. She knew him, it seems, better than he knew her."