tarry longer, soon took her leave, and the lovers were alone.

Arrived at home, Grace opened her writing desk and commenced a
letter, which started next day for Florida, carrying to Arthur St.
Claire news which made his brain reel and grow giddy with pain,
while his probed heart throbbed, and quivered, and bled with a
fresh agony, as on his knees by Nina's pillow he prayed, not that
the cup of bitterness might pass from him--he was willing now to
quaff that to its very dregs, but that Edith might be happy with
the husband she had chosen, and that he, the desolate, weary
Arthur might not faint beneath this added burden.

Five weeks went by--five weeks of busy talk among the villagers,
some of whom approved of the engagement, while more disapproved.
Where was that proud Southerner? they asked, referring to Arthur
St. Claire. They thought him in love with Edith. Had he deserted
her, and so in a fit of pique she had given herself to Richard?
This was probably the fact, and the gossips, headed by Mrs.
Eliakim Rogers, speculated upon it, while the days glided by,
until the five weeks were gone, and Edith, sitting in Grace's
boudoir, read, with eyes which had not wept since the day
following her betrothal, the following extract from Arthur's
letter to his cousin:

"Richard and Edith! Oh! Grace, Grace! I thought I had suffered all
that mortal man could suffer, but when that fatal message came, I
died a thousand deaths in one, enduring again the dreadful agony
when in the Deering woods I gave my darling up. Oh, Edith, Edith,
Edith, my soul goes after her even now with a quenchless, mighty
love, and my poor, bruised, blistered heart throbs as if some