girl, nor had he once heard of her. To the house of her aunt, where
she resided, Florence took his way one evening in early autumn, his
heart disturbed by many conflicting emotions. His love for Edith had
come back in full force; and his spirit was longing for the old
communion.

"Can I see Miss Walter!" he asked, on arriving at her place of
residence.

"Walk in," returned the servant who had answered his summons.

Florence entered the little parlor where he had spent so many
never-to-be-forgotten hours with Edith--hours unspeakably happy in
passing, but, in remembrance, burdened with pain--and looking around
on each familiar object with strange emotions. Soon a light step was
heard descending the stairs, and moving along the passage. The door
opened, and Edith--no, her aunt--entered. The young man had risen in
the breathlessness of expectation.

"Mr. Florence," said the aunt, coldly. He extended his hand; but she
did not take it.

"How is Edith?" was half stammered.

"She is sinking rapidly," replied the aunt.

Edwin staggered back into a chair.

"Is she ill?" he inquired, with a quivering lip.