for Arthur--of the obstacle to that love--of the agony it cost her
to give him up. He had deceived her--had won her under false
pretenses, assuming that she loved no one. She did not think this
of Richard, and in her eyes, usually so soft and mild, there was a
black, hard, terrible expression, as she whispered hoarsely, "How
came this in your possession?"

He told her how--thus exonerating Richard from blame, and the
hard, angry look was drowned in tears as Edith wept aloud.

"Then he don't know it," she said at length, "Richard don't. I
should hate him if he did and still wished me to be his wife."

"I can tell him," was Victor's dry response, and in an instant
Edith was over where he sat.

"You cannot, you must not, you shall not. It will kill him if I
desert him. He told me so, and I promised that I wouldn't--
promised solemnly. I would not harm a hair of Richard's head, and
he so noble, so good, so helpless, with so few sources of
enjoyment; but oh, Victor, I did love Arthur best--did love him so
much," and in that wailing cry Edith's true sentiments spoke out.
"I did love him so much--I love him so much now," and she kept
whispering it to herself, while Victor sought in vain for some
word of comfort, but could find none. Once he said to her, "Wait,
and Nina may die," but Edith recoiled from him in horror.

"Never hint that Again," she almost screamed. "It's murder, foul
murder. I would not have Nina die for the whole world--beautiful,
loving Nina. I wouldn't have Arthur, if she did. I couldn't, for I