he me into quietness by the loved tones of
your voice. It is my _only_ hope for life beyond the desired hour,"
murmured the dying youth.

With tremulous fingers Edith touched the chords, and poured forth the
solemn strains to which he loved to listen, and he sunk back and
closed his eyes. At first her voice faltered, but she gradually
regained her self-command, and never had those clear, rich tones
uttered a sweeter strain, than that which floated around the
fluttering spirit, which struggled to release itself from the
attenuated form of the early doomed.

Barclay stood without, watching the scene with breathless interest,
and a terrible struggle was passing in his dark and stormy soul.
Euston might live beyond the hour of two, and he would then be a
beggar. His eye wandered toward Edith, so nobly devoted, so purely
beautiful; and the tempter whispered,

"She might save you--ennoble you; the love, the sweet influence of
such a woman are all powerful. Once yours, you could surround her with
such an atmosphere of care and tenderness, that her heart must be won
to love you--to forget the past. Without her, you are doomed--doomed.
What matters a few more moments of existence to one like him, when the
eternal welfare of a human being hangs trembling in the balance?
Deprived of the means of living, Edith will have no choice--she must
marry you, or debase her pride of soul before the iron sway of
poverty. Her mother is old--infirm; and for her sake, the daughter
will listen to your proffers of love. Take your destiny into your own
hands. Cowardly soul! why falter now? It is but completing your own
work. He is _your_ victim--you know it, and feel it in every pulse of
your throbbing heart. Years of usefulness might have been his, but for
you; then complete the sacrifice without hesitation. What avails it
to have accomplished so much, if the reward escapes you at the last
moment?"

Such were the wild thoughts that oppressed his soul during those
terrible hours. He saw that the parchment which disinherited him was
placed beside Euston, and the pen stood in the inkstand, ready to do
its service, so soon as the hand of the watch pointed to the hour of
two; and he ground his teeth in impotent rage, as the moments flitted
by, and Euston yet continued to breathe.

Terrible is the watch of love beside the flitting soul which parts in
peace; but how much more awful was that vigil, in which the anguish of
bereavement was doubly emb