It was the original plan for the party to remain two weeks or more at the Mountain House, and then go on to Saratoga, but so delighted were they with the place that they decided to tarry longer, and the last of August found them still inmates of the hotel, whose huge white walls, seen from the Hudson, stand out from the dark wooded landscape, like some mammoth snow bank, suggestive to the traveller of a quiet retreat and a cool shelter from the summer's fervid heat. Edith's health and spirits were visibly improved, and her musical laugh often rang through the house in tones so merry and gleeful that the most solemn of the guests felt their boyhood coming back to them as they heard the ringing laugh, and a softer light suffused their cold, stern eyes as they paused in the midst of some learned discussion to watch the frolicsome, graceful belle of the Mountain House—the bride elect of the blind man.

It was known to be so now. The secret was out—told by Victor, when closely questioned with regard to Edith's relationship to Mr. Harrington. It created much surprise and a world of gossip, but shielded Edith from attentions which might otherwise have been annoying, for more than Richard thought her the one of all others whose presence could make the sunshine of their life. But Edith was betrothed. The dun leaves of October would crown her a wife, and so one pleasant morning some half a score young men, each as like to the other as young men at fashionable places of resort are apt to be, kicked their patent leather boots against the pillars of the rear piazza, broke a part of the tenth commandment shockingly, muttered to themselves speeches anything but complimentary to Richard, and then, at the appearance of a plaid silk travelling dress and brown straw flat, rushed forward en masse, each contending frantically for the honor of assisting Miss Hastings to enter the omnibus, where Richard was already seated, and which was to convey a party to the glens of the Kauterskill Falls.

Edith had been there often. The weird wildness of the deep gorge suited her, and many an hour had she whiled away upon the broken rocks, watching the flecks of sunlight as they came struggling down through the overhanging trees, listening to the plaintive murmur of the stream, or gazing with delight upon the fringed, feathery falls which hung from the heights above like some long, white, gauzy ribbon. Richard, on the contrary, had never visited them before, and he only consented to do so now from a desire to gratify Edith, who acted as his escort in place of Victor. Holding fast to her hand he slowly descended the winding steps and circuitous paths, and then, with a sad feeling of helpless dependence, sat down upon the bank where Edith bade him sit, herself going off in girlish ecstasies as a thin spray fell upon her face and she saw above her a bright-hued rainbow, spanning the abyss.

"They are letting the water on," she cried, "Look, Richard! do look!" and she grasped his hand, while he said to her mournfully,

"Has Birdie forgotten that I am blind, and helpless, and old—that she must lead me as a child?"

There was a touching pathos in his voice which went straight to Edith's heart, and forgetting the rainbow, she eat down beside him, still keeping his hand in hers, and asked what was the matter? She knew he was unusually disturbed, for seldom had she seen upon his face a look of so great disquiet. Suddenly as she remembered his unwillingness to come there alone, it flashed upon her that it might arise from an aversion to seem so dependent upon a weak girl in the presence of curious strangers. With Victor he did not mind it, but with her it might be different, and she asked if it were not so.

"Hardly that, darling; hardly that;" and the sightless eyes drooped as if heavy with unshed tears. "Edith," and he pressed the warm hand he held, "ours will be an unnatural alliance. I needed only to mingle with the world to find it so. People wonder at your choice—wonder that one so young as you should choose a battered, blasted tree like me round which to twine the tendrils of your green, fresh life."

"What have you heard?" Edith asked, half bitterly, for since their engagement was known at the hotel, she had more than once suspected the truth of what he said to her. The world did not approve, but she would not tell Richard that she knew it, and she asked again what he had heard.

"The ear of the blind is quick," he replied; "and as I sat waiting in the stage this morning I heard myself denounced as a 'blind old Hunks,' a selfish dog, who had won the handsomest girl in the country. Then, as we were descending to this ravine you remember we stopped at the foot of some stairs while you removed a brier from your dress, and from a group near by I heard the whispered words, 'There they come—the old blind man, who bought his ward with money and gratitude. 'Twas a horrid sacrifice! Look how beautiful she is!' Darling, I liked to hear you praised, but did not like the rest. It makes me feel as if I were dragging you to the altar against your will. And what is worse than all, the verdict of the people here is the verdict of the world. Edith, you don't want me. You cannot wish to call one husband whose dependence upon you will always make you blush for your choice. It was gratitude alone which prompted your decision. Confess that it was, and I give you back your troth. You need not be the old blind man's wife."

For an instant Edith's heart leaped up, and the sun spots dancing on the leaves were brighter than she had ever seen them, but the feeling passed away, and laying both her hands reverently in Richard's, she said,

"I will be your wife. I care nothing for the world, and we won't mingle in it any more to cause remarks. We'll stay at Collingwood, where people know us best. Let's go home to-morrow. I'm tired of this hateful place. Will you go?"

Ere Richard could answer, Grace Atherton was heard exclaiming,

"Ah, here you are, I've hunted everywhere. Mr. Russell," and she turned to the dark man at her side, "this is Mr. Harrington—Miss Hastings—Mr. Russell, from Tallahassee." Edith did not at first think that Tallahassee was in Florida, not many miles from Sunnybank, and she bowed to the gentleman as to any stranger, while Grace, who had just arrived in another omnibus, explained to her that Mr. Russell was a slight acquaintance of Arthur's; that the latter being in town, and accidentally hearing that he was coming North, had intrusted him with some business matters, which would require his visiting Grassy Spring—had given him a letter of introduction to herself, said letter containing a note for Edith—that Mr. Russell had been to Shannondale, and ascertaining their whereabouts, had followed them, reaching the Mountain House in the morning stage.

"He can spend but one day here," she added, in conclusion, "and wishing him to see as much as possible of our northern grandeur I brought him at once to the Falls. Here is your note," and tossing it into Edith's lap she moved away.

A note from Arthur! How Edith trembled as she held it in her hand, and with a quick, furtive glance at sightless eyes beside her, she raised the dainty missive to her lips, feeling a reproachful pang as she reflected that she was breaking her vow to Richard. Why had Arthur written to her—she asked herself this question many times, while Richard, too, asked,

"What news from Florida?" ere she broke the seal and read, not words of changeless and dark despair, but words of entreaty that for the sake of Nina, sick, dying Nina, she would come at once to Florida, for so the crazy girl had willed it, pleading with them the live-long day to send for Miggie, precious Miggie, with the bright, black eyes, which looked her into subjection, and the soft hands which drove the ugly pain away.

"All the summer," Arthur wrote, "she has been failing. The heat seems to oppress her, and several times I've been on the point of returning with her to the North, thinking I made a mistake in bringing her here, but she refuses to leave Sunnybank. Old sights and familiar places have a soothing effect upon her, and she is more as she used to be before the great calamity fell upon her. Her disease is consumption, hereditary like her insanity, and as her physical powers diminish her mental faculties seem to increase. The past is not wholly a blank to her now; she remembers distinctly much that has gone by, but of nothing does she talk so constantly as of Miggie, asking every hour if I've sent for you— how long before you'll come; and if you'll stay until she's dead. I think your coming will prolong her life; and you will never regret it, I am sure. Mr. Russell will be your escort, as he will return in three weeks."

To this note two postscripts were appended—the first in a girlish, uneven hand, was redolent of the boy Arthur's "Florida rose."

"Miggie, precious Miggie—come to Sunnybank; come to Nina. She is waiting for you. She wants you here—wants to lay her poor, empty head, where the bad pain used to be, on your soft, nice bosom—to shut her eyes and know it is your breath she feels—your sweet, fragrant breath, and not Arthur's, brim full of cigar smoke. Do come, Miggie, won't you? There's a heap of things I want to fix before I die, and I am dying, Miggie. I see it in my hands, so poor and thin, not one bit like they used to be, and I see it, too, in Arthur's actions. Dear Arthur boy! He is so good to me— carries me every morning to the window, and holds me in his lap while I look out into the garden where we used to play, you and I. I think it was you, but my brain gets so twisted, and I know the real Miggie is out under the magnolias, for it says so on the stone, but I can't help thinking you are she. Arthur has a new name for me, a real nice name, too. He took it from a book, he says—about just such a wee little girl as I am. 'Child-wife,' that's what he calls me, and he strokes my hair so nice. I'm loving Arthur a heap, Miggie. It seems just as if he was my mother, and the name 'Child-wife' makes little bits of waves run all over me. He's a good boy, and God will pay him by and by for what he's been to me. Some folks here call me Mrs. St. Claire. Why do they? Sometimes I remember something about somebody somewhere, more than a hundred years ago, but just as I think I've got hold of it right, it goes away. I lose it entirely, and my head is so snarled up. Come and unsnarl it, wont you? Nina is sick, Nina is dying, Nina is crazy. You must come."

The second postscript showed a bolder, firmer hand, and Edith read,

"I, too, echo Nina's words, 'Come, Miggie, come.' Nina wants you, and I—Heaven only knows how much I want you—but, Edith, were you in verity Richard's wife, you could not be more sacred to me than you are as his betrothed, and I promise solemnly that I will not seek to influence your decision. The time is surely coming when I shall be alone; no gentle Nina, sweet 'Child-wife' clinging to me. She will be gone, and her Arthur boy, as she calls me, free to love whomsoever he will. But this shall make no difference. I have given you to Richard. I will not wrong the blind man. Heaven bless you both and bring you to us."

The sun shone just as brightly in the summer sky—the Kauterskill fell as softly into the deep ravine—the shouts of the tourists were just us gay—the flecks of sunshine on the grass danced just as merrily, but Edith did not heed them. Her thoughts were riveted upon the lines she had read, and her heart throbbed with an unutterable desire to respond at once to that pleading call—to take to herself wings and fly away—away over mountain and valley, river and rill, to the fair land of flowers where Nina was, and where too was Arthur. As she read, she uttered no sound, but when at last Richard said to her,

"What is it, Birdie? Have you heard bad news?" her tears flowed at once, and leaning her head upon his shoulder, she answered,

"Nina is dying—dear little, bright-haired Nina. She has sent for me. She wants me to come so much. May I, Richard? May I go to Nina?"

"Read me the letter," was Richard's reply, his voice unusually low and sad.

Edith could not read the whole. Arthur's postscript must be omitted, as well as a portion of Nina's, but she did the best she could, breaking down entirely when she reached the point where Nina spoke of her Arthur boy's goodness in carrying her to the window.

Richard, too, was much affected, and his voice trembled as he said, "St. Claire is a noble fellow. I always felt strangely drawn toward him. Isn't there something between him and Nina—something more than mere guardianship?"

"They were engaged before she was crazy," returned Edith, while
Richard sighed, "poor boy, poor boy! It must be worse than death.
His darkness is greater than mine."

Then his thoughts came back to Edith's question, "May I go to Nina?" and his first feeling was that she might, even though her going would necessarily defer a day to which he was so continually looking forward, but when he remembered the danger to which she would be exposed from the intense heat at that season of the year, he shrank from it at once, mildly but firmly refusing to let her incur the fearful risk.

"Could I be assured that my bird would fly back to me again with its plumage all unruffled I would let her go," he said, "but the chances are against it. You would surely sicken and die, and I cannot let you go."

Edith offered no remonstrance, but her face was very white and her eyes strangely black as she said, "Let us go home, then; go to- morrow. This is no place for me, with Nina dying."

Nothing could please Richard more than to be back at Collingwood, and when Grace came to them he announced his intention of leaving on the morrow. Grace was willing, and Victor, when told of the decision, was wild with delight. Mr. Russell, too, decided to go with them to Shannondale, and when, next morning, the party came out to take the downward stage, they found him comfortably seated on the top, whither he had but little trouble in coaxing Grace, who expressed a wish to enjoy the mountain scenery as they descended.

"Will Miss Hastings come up, too?" he asked, but Edith declined and took her seat inside between Richard and Victor, the latter of whom had heard nothing of the letter; neither did Edith tell him until the next day when, arrived at Collingwood, they were alone for a moment in the library—then she explained to him that Nina was sick, possibly had sent for her.

"I thought things would work out after a time, though honestly I'd rather that little girl shouldn't die if it could be brought round any other way," was Victor's reply, which called a flush at once to Edith's cheek.

"Victor Dupres," said she, "never hint such a thing again. It is too late now; it cannot be—it shall not be; and if I go, Arthur has promised not to say one word which can influence me."

"If you go," repeated Victor, "Then you have some intention of going—I thought he had objected."

"So he has," returned Edith, the same look stealing into her eyes which came there at the Falls. "So he has, but if Nina lives till the middle of October I shall go. My mind is made up."

"Oh, consistency, thou art a jewel," muttered Victor, as hearing some one coming, he walked away. "Means to jump down the lion's throat, but does not expect to be swallowed! Splendid logic that!" and Victor shrugged his shoulders at what seemed so contradictory as Edith's talk and Edith's conduct.

As she had said, Edith meant to go, nay more, was determined to go, and when, on the third day after their return, Mr. Russell came for her final decision, she said to him, ere Richard had time to speak,

"I shall not go now; it is too early for that, but if Nina continues worse, I will come to her the latter part of October. I am writing so to her to-day."

Richard was confounded, and could only stammer out,

"Who is to be your escort?"

"You, Richard;" and Edith clasped his arm, thus reassuring him at once.

She had some thought, some consideration for him; she did not intend to desert him wholly, and he playfully tapped her chin, laughing to think how the little lady had boldly taken matters into her own hands, telling what should be with as much sang froid as if she were master instead of himself. And Richard rather liked the independent spirit of Edith, particularly when he found that he was not wholly left out of her calculations. And so he arranged with Mr. Russell, that if Nina were not better as the autumn advanced, Edith should perhaps go down to see her.

Arthur had made his marriage with Nina public as soon as he returned to Sunnybank, but as Mr. Russell's home was in Tallahassee, and he himself a quiet, taciturn man, he had not heard of it, and in speaking of Nina to Edith, he called her Miss Bernard, as usual, and thus Richard still remained in ignorance, never suspecting that golden haired Nina was the same young girl he had married years before.

Poor Richard, he was ignorant of many things and never dreamed how light and gay was Edith's heart at the prospect of going to Florida, even though she half expected that when she went it would be as his wife. But Richard determined it otherwise. It cost him a struggle so to do, but his iron will conquered every feeling, save those of his better judgment, and calling Edith to him one day two weeks after Mr. Russell's departure, he said,

"Birdie, I've come to the conclusion that a blind man like me will only be in your way, in case you go to Florida. I am not an interesting traveling companion. I require too much care, and I dread the curious gaze of strangers. It makes me very uncomfortable. So on the whole I'd rather stay at home and let Victor go in my stead. What does Birdie say?"

"She says you are the noblest, most unselfish man that ever lived," and Edith kissed his lips, chiding herself seriously for the spirit which whispered to her that she too would rather go without him. "I won't stay very long," she said. "Our wedding need not be deferred more than two months; say, till the first of January, at 7 o'clock, just as we before arranged it for October, only a more quiet affair, I shall then be your New Year's gift. Does that suit you, dearest?"

She did not often call him thus, and when she did she was sure of accomplishing her purpose. The strong man melted beneath a few words of love, becoming a very tool in the hands of a weak girl.

"Yes, darling," he replied, "that will do—but supposing we hear that Nina is better, or dead—what then?"

The mere possibility was terrible to Edith, but she answered calmly,

"Then we'll be married in October, just as first proposed;" and thus was the die cast, and a fresh link added to the chain of Edith's destiny. She was going to Florida; going to Arthur; and going alone, so far as Richard was concerned.

Spying Victor coming up the walk from the post-office, she ran out to meet him, telling him of the journey before him, and almost crying for joy when he placed in her hand a worn envelope bearing the post-mark of Tallahassee. It was from Arthur, and contained a few lines only, telling of Nina's increasing illness, and her restless, impatient desire for Miggie. In conclusion he wrote,

"We have had no fever this summer. You will be perfectly safe in coming any time after the middle of October. I shall welcome Mr. Harrington most cordially if he sees fit to accompany you."

Edith could read this to Richard, and she did, feeling a pang at the perfect faith with which he answered,

"Were it not for the tedious journey I believe I would go with you, but it's too much of an undertaking. I won't trammel you with so great a burden. I'd rather stay at home and anticipate my darling's return."

Then with the same forethought and careful consideration which marked all his actions, Richard consulted with her as to the beat time for her to start, fixing upon the 15th of October, and making all his arrangements subservient to this. He did not tell her how lonely he should be without her—how he should miss her merry laugh, which, strange to say, grew merrier each day; but he let her know in various ways how infinitely precious she was to him, and more than once Edith felt constrained to give up the journey, but the influences from Florida drew her strangely in that direction, and revolving to pay Richard for his self-denial by an increase of love when she should return, she busied herself with her preparations until the 15th of October came, and her trunks stood ready in the hall.

"If I could only read your letters myself, it would not seem one- half so bad," Richard said, when at the last moment, he held Edith's hand, "but there's a shadow over me this morning—a dark presentiment that in suffering you to leave me I am losing you forever."

Edith could not answer, she pitied him so much, and kissing his lips, she put from her neck his clinging arms, wiped his tears away, smoothed his ruffled hair, and then went out from his presence, leaving him there in his sorrow and blindness alone.