immoderately long steps. Then
he stopped abruptly, wrung his hands, and gazed at Edith. And suddenly,
like a flash in a vacuum, the thought shot through his brain that he had
seen this very scene somewhere--in a dream, in a remote childhood, in a
previous existence, he did not know when or where. It seemed strangely
familiar, and in the next instant strangely meaningless and unreal.
The walls, the floor--everything began to move, to whirl about him;
he struck his hands against his forehead, and sank down into a
damask-covered easy-chair. With a faint cry of alarm, Edith sprang up,
seized a bottle of cologne which happened to be within reach, and knelt
down at his side. She put her arm around his neck, and raised his head.

"Mr. Birch, dear Mr. Birch," she cried, in a frightened whisper, "for
God's sake come to yourself! O God, what have I done?"

She blew the eau-de-cologne into his face, and, as he languidly opened
his eyes, he felt the touch of her warm hand upon his cheeks and his
forehead.

"Thank heaven! he is better," she murmured, still continuing to bathe
his temples. "How do you feel now, Mr. Birch?" she added, in a tone of
anxious inquiry.

"Thank you, it was an unpardonable weakness," he muttered, without
changing his attitude. "Do not trouble yourself about me. I shall soon
be well."

It was so sweet to be conscious of her gentle ministry, that it required
a great effort, an effort of conscience, to rouse him once more, as his
strength returned.

"Had you not better stay?" she asked, as he rose to put on his overcoat.
"I will call one of the servants and have him show you a room. We will
say to-morrow morning that you were taken ill, and nobody will wonder."

"No, no," he responded, energetically. "I am perfectly strong now." But
he still had to lean on a chair, and his face was deathly pale.

"Farewell, Miss Edith," he said; and a tender sadness trembled in his
voice. "Farewell. We shall--probably--never meet again."

"Do not speak so," she answered, seizing his hand. "You will try to
forget this, and you will still be great and happy. And when fortune
shall again smile upon you, and--and--you will be content to be my
friend, then we shall see each other as before."

"No, no," he broke forth, with a sudden hoarseness. "It will never be."

He walked toward the door with the motions of one who feels death in his
limbs; then stopped once more and his eyes lingered with inexpressible
sadness on the