unavailing to alter the past.

"The past is past," he said to himself, as he mused with the
invitation in his hand. "I cannot recall it--I cannot change it. If
repentance can in any way atone for error, surely I have made
atonement; for my repentance has been long and sincere. If Edith can
see my heart, her spirit must be satisfied. Even she could not wish
for this living burial. It is better for me to mingle in society as
of old."

Acting on this view, Florence made one on the next evening, in a
social party. He felt strangely, for his mind was invaded by old
influences, and touched by old impressions. He saw, in many a light
and airy form, as it glanced before him, the image of one long since
passed away; and heard, in the voices that filled the rooms, many a
tone that it seemed must have come from the lips of Edith. How busy
was Memory again with the past. In vain he sought to shut out the
images that arose in his mind. The page was open before him, and
what was impressed thereon he could not but see and read.

This passed, in some degree, away as the evening progressed, and he
came nearer, so to speak, to some of those who made up the happy
company. Among those present was a young lady from a neighboring
city, who attracted much attention both from her manners and person.
She fixed the eyes of Mr. Florence soon after he entered the room,
and, half unconsciously to himself, his observation was frequently
directed towards her.

"Who is that lady?" he asked of a friend, an hour after his arrival.