"Yes, dearest," he answered. A long, sweet kiss and gentle adieu, in which there was love enough to feast even her long-famishing soul, and he was gone.
She skipped lightly into the parlor, kissed her father, Aunt Mary, Edith, Sylva, and Fido, the little Spanish poodle that was nestled in her arms, and then bounded up the stairs to her own apartment, singing as she went.
"There goes the happiest heart in Wimbledon, to-night," said her father, as he caught the sound of her musical voice ringing through the spacious hall above.
"Save one," said Aunt Mary, with a sad smile.
"He is beyond its precincts," returned Major Howard. "Edith, did you ever love?" said he, quickly turning his discourse toward the gentle girl, who stood, regarding attentively the faces of the speakers, as if she hardly comprehended their words.
"No," answered she, innocently.
"Heaven grant you never may," said her mother, fervently; "come, my child, let us seek the quiet of our own apartment."
Edith threw her arm affectionately round the wasted form.
"Good-night, uncle," said she, and they all disappeared.
CHAPTER L.