Edith seated herself on the side of the bed, and leaned back so that I could not look in her face. Then putting her arms round me, she drew me towards her, and made me rest against her shoulder.
"If you grieve to listen, think how painful it is for me to relate," said she.
"I will," I answered; "I shall have strength to hear whatever you have fortitude to tell."
"You must not ask a minute description of what will always be involved in my remembrance in a horror of thick darkness. I know not how I got home from Dr. Harlowe's, where the tidings reached me. My mother brought you in the carriage, supported in her arms; and when I first saw you, you were lying just where you are now, perfectly insensible. Richard was carried to Dr. Harlowe's on a litter, and it was then feared he might not live."
Edith's voice faltered.
"It was after sunset. The saloon was dark, and all was gloom and confusion in the household. Mamma and I were standing by your bed, with our backs to the door, when we heard a hoarse, low voice behind us, saying,—
"'Is she dead?'
"We turned, and beheld Ernest right in the door way, looking more like a spectre than a human being.
"'No, no,' answered my mother; and almost running to meet him, she seized him by the arm, drew him into the chamber, and closed the door. He struggled to be released; but she seemed to have the strength of numbers in her single grasp.
"'She is not dead,' said she, pointing to the bed, 'though she hears, sees, knows nothing; but Richard will die, and you will be arrested as a murderer. You must not linger here one moment. Go, and save yourself from the consequences of this fatal act. Go, if you would not see me, your mother, die in agony at your feet."