"Edith!"
"He told me so. He saw my arrival in the paper when I first landed."
"And he never told me, and he never went to see you! The wretch!" cried Trix.
"I don't know that he is to blame," Edith responded quietly. "I deserved no better; and ah! Trixy, not many in this world are as generous as you. So you are perfectly happy, darling? I wonder if Captain Hammond, now, has anything to do with it?"
"Well, yes," Tax admits blushingly again; "I may as well tell you.
We are to be married at Christmas."
"Trix! Married!"
"Married at last. We were engaged before I left England, three years ago. He wanted to marry me then, foolish fellow!" says Trix with shining eyes, "but of course, we none of us would listen to so preposterous a thing. He had only his pay and his debts, and his expectations from a fairy godmother or grandmother, who wouldn't die. But she died last mail—I mean last mail brought a black bordered letter, saying she was gone to glory, and had left Angus everything. He is going to sell out of the army, and will be here by Christmas, and—and the wedding is to take place the very week he arrives. And, oh! Edith, he's just the dearest fellow, the best fellow, and I'm the happiest girl in all New York!"
Edith says nothing. She takes Trix, who is crying, suddenly, in her arms, and kisses her. Angus Hammond has been faithful in the hour when she deserted them—that is her thought. Her self-reproach never ceases—never for one hour.
"We go to Scotland of course," said Trix, wiping her eyes; "and ma—also, of course, stays with Charley. Nellie will be here to fill my place—don't you think she will make a charming sister?"
She laughs as she asks the question—it is the one little revenge she takes. Before Edith can reply she runs on: