Edith's Choice.

From childhood, Edith Esterbrook had known George Cadman. The fact that he was ten years older than herself, rather strengthened their friendship than otherwise.

As years brought her development into womanhood, Cadman was not slow to realize and appreciate her attractions. He loved Edith with a strong devotion, which her young experience did not value. During the last year several had proposed marriage to her, but for a long time, George alone was not repulsed. To him she had not yet said a decided "No." She felt sure that her friendship's love was not the right kind of love for marriage, but she dreaded to part with him, and so, with an unconsciously selfish postponement of the final word, she had kept him by her side.

But the last month had brought a change into her life. She had met one whom she thought she could be happy in marrying,—one Howard Hester, who loved her passionately at first sight, and declared his love soon after. He was immensely rich. Riches alone could not tempt Edith, but he also seemed to possess a character which could adore her without the slightest criticism. He gained her confidence quickly. To him she confided all her noble aspirations, all her plans and projects for doing charitable work. To all he acquiesced, encouraging anything that would add to her joy in life, and declaring his fortune at her feet. All he asked in return was for himself to be her first thought and love.

What an ideal life! Edith could think of nothing nobler. It was a shock to her parents when she declared her desire to marry Howard. She was entirely too young, and many other objections were given. But all were promptly overcome by the tactful Howard, and consent was finally gained.

Edith decided to personally tell George before her engagement was announced, and to this intent she asked him to call that evening.

As she waited for him in her parlor, she gave herself up to contrasting him with Howard.

"George is a dear," she thought regretfully, "I hope that he gets over his fondness for me soon. Strange that he seldom agreed with me in any opinion. Wonder why he cared for me? Always ready to correct me—so different from Howard! After marriage, I suppose I would have to submit every plan to George for approval, and abide by his decision. Howard is so willing to agree and so much more loving."

But with all her satisfied persuasion, Edith felt a strange pang with the thought that this evening would be the last alone with her life-long friend.

When he entered, she arose to meet him with her customary frankness.

"I have been waiting for you to call this past week as usual, but as you didn't come I felt at liberty to send for you."

"Always, Edith," he said pressing her hand. "At any time or place, I am at your command. No one knows that better than yourself."

The meaning of his direct gaze was only too positive, and Edith felt suddenly overcome with pity and constraint. How could she tell him of her engagement, when he did not even suspect it? She colored hotly and dropped her gaze.

"My absence this week has been unavoidable," George continued, as they both sat down opposite to one another. "You have heard of my cousin, Will Lambert, and I believe you have met his wife occasionally?"

"O, yes, only a week ago I attended an afternoon affair at her home. What a pretty, attractive woman she is!"

Walter's face became grave, and his eyes looked unutterable sadness.

"O, Edith, if you could only see her now! Poor little wreck of womanhood! She is undergoing unbearable sorrow!"

Edith's eyes shot instant interest.

"O, tell me her trouble," she exclaimed quickly, forgetting the object of her bidding him to call.

"Her husband got into pretty deep trouble, and to avoid her going through the long trial and imprisonment, he committed suicide by drowning."

"Yes," George continued, "he has left it to me to try to hush it up so that his wrong-doing wouldn't become public gossip. For a week Eve tried every sort of pleading and bribery, but all of no avail,—to-morrow's newspapers will print the whole story, with as much exaggeration as they can possibly invent. Poor little Alma will be more distracted than ever!"

"O, how cruel it all seems!" exclaimed Edith, entering into his mood of passionate pity. "How I wish I could go to her!"

George's eyes flashed understanding. "And why not? A woman needs a woman's sympathy. She has no woman relative and her mother died five years ago."

"I will go to her," said Edith with calm resolve. "I'm not really a friend, but we can always come very near to a heart that is wrecked by despair."

"You could, Edith, but not everyone," he said with warm tenderness. "I have been with her every evening since it happened,—that accounts for my absence here. She clings to me in the most childishly helpless manner. I promised to go to-night, too. I would not disappoint her even at the sacrifice of an evening with you. You realize that sacrifice, Edith? I missed you, to go to one in sorrow. When may I call again?"

His tone was so tender and expectant, that Edith stood completely abashed, trying to find words to tell him her secret which would separate them forever.

"Why, George, I want always to see you," she stammered. Her eyes drooped, not daring to meet his searching gaze, "But before you go, I ought to tell you something that may change your desire to come."

"Nothing could do that," he said fervently.

She felt his tone and it spurred her to frankness.

"George," she said gently, "I hope it will not hurt you to know that I am engaged."

Great as had been the shock of Will's death, it was slight compared to the awfulness of her revelation. Of late he had felt himself on surer grounds. He hoped to win Edith. Now by one fell stroke, when his keen fine nature was vibrating with tragic sympathy, his own hopes were dashed to the ground.

And Edith herself had struck the blow!

Pale and drawn he looked at her with acute misery depicted in every strong feature.

"Edith! it's all over then—gone forever!" he exclaimed tensely.

Edith's violet eyes suffused with ready tears.

"O, George, don't! don't! I never dreamed that you would take it so to heart! We shall always, always be the same old friends."

"Friends!" he returned bitterly. "What a mockery! But you are right—we will always be the same—you a friend, and I"—he paused and swept her with a glance of passionate admiration—"and I, your abject lover!"

"But, George," she began pleadingly.

"Let us not discuss it, Edith," he interrupted in his old dictative way, "It is a fierce fate that struck me two fearful blows at once. But don't worry about me, little one," he added gently, "I'm a man and can bear it. Now I will go to a little woman who has less strength to overcome."

As he held out his hand, his face became calm and set, and no one could have guessed the strength summoned to meet the inevitable.

"Good-bye, Edith," he said, quietly. "God bless you and give you all the happiness you deserve. If you ever need a heart to share a trouble, mine is always open to you. Good-bye, little one, Good-bye."

And Edith, more overcome than George, could only murmur, "Good-bye," and let him go.

Tired, she dropped into a chair. Vaguely she wondered why he did not even ask who her future husband was to be. Suddenly came the echo of his "Good-bye, little one, good-bye," and the pathos of it filled her with a melancholy longing.

She bowed her head in her hands, and wept.