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More than all this. The rebuke of Miss Linmore almost maddened him. In turning from Edith, he had let his heart go out towards the other with a passionate devotion. Pride in her beauty and brilliant accomplishments had filled his regard with a selfishness that could ill bear the shock of a sudden repulse. Sleepless was the night that followed; and when the morning, long looked for, broke at last, it brought no light for his darkened spirit. Yet he had grown calmer, and a gentle feeling pervaded his bosom. Thrown off by Miss Linmore, his thoughts now turned by a natural impulse, as the needle, long held by opposing attraction, turns to its polar point, again towards Edith Walter. As he thought of her longer and longer, tenderer emotions began to tremble in his heart. The beauty of her character was again seen; and his better nature bowed before it once more in a genuine worship.

“How have I been infatuated! What syren spell has been on me!” Such were the words that fell from his lips, marking the change in his feelings.

Days went by, and still the change went on, until the old affection had come back; the old tender, true affection. But, he had turned from its object–basely turned away. A more glaring light had dazzled his eyes so that he could see, for a time, no beauty, no attraction, in his first love. Could he turn to her again? Would she receive him? Would she let him dip healing leaves in the waters he had dashed with bitterness? His heart trembled as he asked these questions, for there was no confident answer.

At last Edwin Florence resolved that he would see Edith once more, and seek to repair the wrong done both to her and to himself. It was three months after his rejection by Miss Linmore when he came to this resolution. And then, some weeks elapsed before he could force himself to act upon it. In all that time he had not met the young girl, nor had he once heard of her. To the house of her aunt, where she resided, Florence took his way one evening in early autumn, his heart disturbed by many conflicting emotions. His love for Edith had come back in full force; and his spirit was longing for the old communion.

“Can I see Miss Walter!” he asked, on arriving at her place of residence.

“Walk in,” returned the servant who had answered his summons.

Florence entered the little parlor where he had spent so many never-to-be-forgotten hours with Edith–hours unspeakably happy in passing, but, in remembrance, burdened with pain–and looking around on each familiar object with strange emotions. Soon a light step was heard descending the stairs, and moving along the passage. The door opened, and Edith–no, her aunt–entered. The young man had risen in the breathlessness of expectation.

“Mr. Florence,” said the aunt, coldly. He extended his hand; but she did not take it.

“How is Edith?” was half stammered.

“She is sinking rapidly,” replied the aunt.

Edwin staggered back into a chair.

“Is she ill?” he inquired, with a quivering lip.

“Ill! She is dying!” There was something of indignation in the way this was said.

“Dying!” The young man clasped his hands together with a gesture of despair.

“How long has she been sick?” he next ventured to ask.

“For months she has been dying daily,” said the aunt. There was a meaning in her tones that the young man fully comprehended. He had not dreamed of this.

“Can I see her?”

The aunt shook her head, as she answered,

“Let her spirit depart in peace.”

“I will not disturb, but calm her spirit,” said the young man, earnestly. “Oh, let me see her, that I may call her back to life!”

“It is too late,” replied the aunt. “The oil is exhausted, and light is just departing.”

Edwin started to his feet, exclaiming passionately–“Let me see her! Let me see her!”

“To see her thus, would be to blow the breath that would extinguish the flickering light,” said the aunt. “Go home, young man! It is too late! Do not seek to agitate the waters long troubled by your hand, but now subsiding into calmness. Let her spirit depart in peace.”