satisfied, and never since my rememberance, has there come to
Richard Harrington a moment so fraught with bliss as this in which
I hold you in my arms and know I hold my wife, my darling wife,
sweetest name ever breathed by human tongue--and Edith, if you
must sicken of me, do it now--to-night. Don't put it off, for
every fleeting moment binds me to you with an added tie, which
makes it harder to lose you."

"Richard," and, lifting up her head, Edith looked into the eyes
she could not meet before, "I swear to you, solemnly, that never,
by word or deed, will I seek to be released from our engagement,
and if I am released, it will be because you give me up of your
own free will. You will be the one to break it, not I."

"Then it will not be broken," came in a quick response from
Richard, as he held closer to him one whom he now felt to be his
forever.

The lamps upon the table, and the candles on the mantel flashed
and smoked, and almost died away--the fire on the marble hearth
gave one or two expiring gasps and then went out--the hands of the
clock moved onward, pointing to long after midnight, and still
Richard, loth to let his treasure go, kept her with him, talking
to her of his great happiness, and asking if early June would be
too soon for her to be his bride.

"Yes, yes, much too soon," cried Edith. "Give me the whole summer
in which to be free. I've never been any where you know. I want to
see the world. Let's go to Saratoga, and to all those places I've
heard so much about. Then, in the autumn, we'll have a famous