they could roam far and wide as they
listed. Where was Edith now, the sweet, the
wonderful Edith? Was there yet the same
dancing light in her beautiful eyes, the same
golden sheen in her hair, the same merry ring
in her voice? And had she not said that when
he was content to be only her friend, he might
return to her, and she would receive him in the
old joyous and confiding way? Surely there
was no life to him apart from her: why should
he not be her friend? Only a glimpse of her
lovely face--ah, it was worth a lifetime; it
would consecrate an age of misery, a glimpse of
Edith's face. Thus ran his fancies day by day,
and the night only lent a deeper intensity to the
yearnings of the day. He walked about as in a
dream, seeing nothing, heeding nothing, while
this one strong desire--to see Edith once more
--throbbed and throbbed with a slow, feverish
perseverance within him. Edith--Edith, the
very name had a strange, potent fascination.
Every thought whispered "Edith,"--his pulse
beat "Edith,"--and his heart repeated the
beloved name. It was his pulse-beat,--his
heartbeat,--his life-beat.

And one morning as he stood absently
looking at his fingers against the light--and they
seemed strangely wan and transparent--the
thought at last took shape. It rushed upon