Edith's face was a study then. Almost every possible emotion was
written upon it. Fear, anguish, disappointed hopes, cruel longings
for the past, terrible shrinkings from the present, and still more
terrible dread of the future. Then these passed away, and were
succeeded by pity, sympathy, gratitude, and a strong desire to do
right. The latter feelings conquered, and sitting down by Richard,
she took his warm hand between her two cold ones, and said to him,

"'Tis the twelfth of May to-night, did you know it?"

Did he know it? He had thought of nothing else the livelong day,
and when, early in the morning, he heard that she was sick, a sad
foreboding had swept over him, lest what he coveted so much should
yet be withheld. But she was there beside him. She had sought the
opportunity and asked if he knew it was the twelfth, and, drawing
her closer to him, he answered back: "Yes, darling; 'tis the day
on which you were to bring me your decision. You have kept your
word, birdie. You have brought it to me whether good or bad. Now
tell me, is it the old blind man's wife, the future mistress of
Collingwood, that I encircle with my arm?"

He bent down to listen for the reply, feeling her breath stir his
hair, and hearing each heart-beat as it counted off the seconds.
Then like a strain of music, sweet and rich, but oh, so touchingly
sad, the words came floating in a whisper to his ear, "Yes,
Richard, your future wife; but please, don't call yourself the old
blind man. It makes you seem a hundred times my father. You are
not old, Richard--no older than I feel!" and the newly betrothed
laid her head on Richard's shoulder, sobbing passionately.