"That there was trouble of some sort, a separation, I think—that you had parted on your very wedding-day. Of course we couldn't believe that."
"It is quite true," was the low reply.
Trixy's eyes opened.
"True! O Dithy! On your wedding-day!"
"On our wedding-day," Edith answered steadily; "to meet no more until we met at his death-bed. Some day, Trix, dear, I will tell you how it was—not now. Two years have passed, but even yet I don't care to think of it. Only this—he was not to blame—he was the bravest, the noblest, the best of men, ten thousand times too good for me. I was a mercenary, ambitious wretch, and I received my just reward. We parted at the last friends, thank God! but I can never forgive myself—never!"
There was a pause—an uncomfortable one for Trix.
"How long since you came to New York?" she asked at length.
Edith told her—told her how she had been wandering over the world since her husband's death—how she had come to America to see her father—how she had tried to find them here in New York—how signally she had failed—and how to-day, by purest accident, she had come upon Charley in the Broadway store.
"How astonished he must have been," his sister said; "I think I see him, lifting his eyebrows to the middle of his forehead. Did he take you for a ghost?"
"By no means, and he was not in the least surprised. He knew I was here, from the first."