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.

Edith was recovering herself.

"No," she replied, faintly.

A deep silence, lasting for the space of nearly half a minute,
followed. By this time the maiden, through a forced effort, had
regained the command of her feelings. Perceiving this, Edwin
resumed--

"As I said, Edith, I love you as I could love a pure and gentle
sister. Will you accept this love? Will you be to me a friend--a
sister?"

Again there passed upon the countenance of Edith a deadly pallor;
while her lips quivered, and her eyes had a strange expression. This
soon passed away, and again something of its former repose was in
her face. At the first few words of Florence, Edith withdrew the
hand he had taken. He now sought it again, but she avoided the
contact.

"You do not answer me, Edith," said the young man.

"Do you wish an answer?" This was uttered in a scarcely audible
voice.

"I do, Edith," was the earnest reply. "Let there be no separation
between us. You are to me what you have ever been, a dearly prized
friend. I never meet you that my heart does not know an impulse for
good--I never think of you but--"

"Let us be as strangers!" said Edith, rising abruptly. And turning
away, she fled from the room.

Slowly did the young man leave the apartment in which they were
sitting, and without seeing any member of the family, departed from
the house. There was a record on his memory that time would have no
power to efface. It was engraved too deeply for the dust of years to
obliterate. As he went, musing aw