Again the young man kissed her.

In low voices, leaning towards each other until the breath of each
was warm on the other's cheek, they sat conversing for a long time.
Then they separated; and both were happy. How sweet were the
maiden's dreams that night, for, in every picture that wandering
fancy drew, was the image of her lover!

Daily thus they met for a long time. Then there was a change in
Edwin Florence. His visits were less frequent, and when he met the
young girl, whose very life was bound up in his, his manner had in
it a reserve that chilled her heart as if an icy hand had been laid
upon it. She asked for no explanation of the change; but, as he grew
colder, she shrunk more and more into herself, like a flower folding
its withering leaves when touched by autumn's frosty fingers.

One day he called on Edith. He was not as cold as he had been, but
he was, from some cause, evidently embarrassed.

"Edith," said he, taking her hand--it was weeks since he had touched
her hand except in meeting and parting--"I need not say how highly I
regard you. How tenderly I love you, even as I could love a pure and
gentle sister. But--"

He paused, for he saw that Edith's face had become very pale; and
that she rather gasped for air than breathed.

"Are you sick?" he asked, in a voice of anxiety.