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The Book Of Memory
by
“I’ve met her only a few times,” said she, “but I have seen enough of her to give me a most exalted opinion of her character. Some one called her very plain; but I have not thought so. There is something so good about her, that you cannot be with her long without perceiving a real beauty in the play of her countenance.”
“No one can know her well, without loving her for the goodness of which you have just spoken,” said Edwin.
“You are intimate with her?”
“Yes. She has been long to me as a sister.” There was a roughness in the voice of Florence as he said this.
“She passed without recognizing you,” said Miss Linmore.
“So I observed.”
“And yet I noticed that she looked you in the face, though with a cold, stony, absent look. It is strange! What can have happened to her?”
“I have observed a change in her for some time past,” Florence ventured to say; “but nothing like this. There is something wrong.”
When the time to part, with his companion came, Edwin Florence felt a sense of relief. Weeks now passed without his seeing or hearing any thing from Edith. During the time he met Miss Linmore frequently; and encouraged to approach, he at length ventured to speak to her of what was in his heart. The young lady heard with pleasure, and, though she did not accept the offered hand, by no means repulsed the ardent suitor. She had not thought of marriage, she said, and asked a short time for reflection.
Edwin saw enough in her manner to satisfy him that the result would be in his favor. This would have made him supremely happy, could he have blotted out all recollection of Edith and his conduct towards her. But, that was impossible. Her form and face, as he had last seen them, were almost constantly before his eyes. As he walked the streets, he feared lest he should meet her; and never felt pleasant in any company until certain that she was not there.
A few days after Mr. Florence had made an offer of his hand to Miss Linmore, and at a time when she was about making a favorable decision, that young lady happened to hear some allusion made to Edith Walter, in a tone that attracted her attention. She immediately asked some questions in regard to her, when one of the persons conversing said–
“Why, don’t you know about Edith?”
“I know that there is a great change in her. But the reason of it I have not heard.”
“Indeed! I thought it was pretty well known that her affections had been trifled with.”
“Who could trifle with the affections of so sweet, so good a girl,” said Miss Linmore, indignantly. “The man who could turn from her, has no true appreciation of what is really excellent and exalted in woman’s character. I have seen her only a few times; but, often enough to make me estimate her as one among the loveliest of our sex.”
“Edwin Florence is the man,” was replied. “He won her heart, and then turned from her; leaving the waters of affection that had flowed at his touch to lose themselves in the sands at his feet. There must be something base in the heart of a man who could trifle thus with such a woman.”
It required a strong effort on the part of Miss Linmore to conceal the instant turbulence of feeling that succeeded so unexpected a declaration. But she had, naturally, great self-control, and this came to her aid.
“Edwin Florence!” said she, after a brief silence, speaking in a tone of surprise.
“Yes, he is the man. Ah, me! What a ruin has been wrought! I never saw such a change in any one as Edith exhibits. The very inspiration of her life is gone. The love she bore towards Florence seems to have been almost the mainspring of her existence; for in touching that the whole circle of motion has grown feeble, and will, I fear, soon cease for ever.”