wedding at Collingwood, and I will settle down into the most
demure, obedient of wives."

Were it not that the same roof sheltered them both, Richard would
have acceded to this delay, but when he reflected that he should
not be parted from Edith any more than if they were really
married, he consented, stipulating that the wedding should take
place on the anniversary of the day when she first came to him
with flowers, and called him "poor blind man."

"You did not think you'd ever be the poor blind man's wife," he
said, asking her, playfully, if she were not sorry even now.

"No," she answered. Nor was she. In fact, she scarcely felt at
all. Her heart was palsied, and lay in her bosom like a block of
stone--heavy, numb, and sluggish in its beat.

Of one thing, only, was she conscious, and that a sense of
weariness--a strong desire to be alone, up stairs, where she was
not obliged to answer questions, or listen to loving words, of
which she was so unworthy. She was deceiving Richard, who, when
his quick ear caught her smothered yawn, as the little clock
struck one, bade her leave him, chiding himself for keeping her so
long from the rest he knew she needed.

"For me, I shall never know fatigue or pain again," he said, as he
led her to the door, "but my singing-bird is different--she must
sleep. God bless you, darling. You have made the blind man very
happy."