great giant hand were pressing its festered wounds, until I faint
with anguish and cry out, 'my punishment is greater than I can
bear.'

"Still I would not have it otherwise, if I could. I deserve it
all, aye, and more, too. Heaven bless them both, Richard and his
beautiful singing bird. Tell her so, Grace. Tell her how I blessed
her for cheering the blind man's darkness, but do not tell her how
much it costs me to bid her, as I now do, farewell forever and
ever, farewell."

It was strange that Grace should have shown this letter to Edith,
but the latter coaxed so hard that she reluctantly consented,
repenting of it however when she saw the effect it had on Edith.
Gradually as she read, there crept over her a look which Grace had
never seen before upon the face of any human being--a look as if
the pent-up grief of years was concentrated in a single moment of
anguish too acute to be described. There were livid spots upon her
neck--livid spots upon her face, while the dry eyes seemed fading
out, so dull, and dim, and colorless they looked, as Edith read
the wailing cry with which Arthur St. Claire bade her his adieu.

For several minutes she sat perfectly motionless, save when the
muscles of her mouth twitched convulsively, and when the hard,
terrible look gave way--the spots began to fade--the color came
back to her cheeks--the eyes resumed their wonted brilliancy--the
fingers moved nervously, and Edith was herself. She had suffered
all she could, and never again would her palsied heart know the
same degree of pain which she experienced when reading Arthur's
letter. It was over now--the worst of it. Arthur knew of her