So the minutes pass.
"Charley," she says at last, in a faint, little whisper, "what a surprise this is. They did not tell me you were coming. Who sent for you? When did you come?"
"You're not to talk, Edith," he answers, lifting his haggard face for a moment—poor Charley! "Trix sent for me." Then he lays it down again.
"Foolish boy!" Edith says with shining eyes; "I do believe you are crying. You don't hate me, then, after all, Charley?"
"Hate you!" he can but just repeat.
"You once said you did, you know; and I deserved it. But I have not been happy, Charley—I have been punished as I merited. Now it is all over, and it is better so—I never was of any use in the world, and never would be. You will let me atone a little for the past in the only way I can. Trix will tell you. And, by and by, when you are quite happy, and she is your wife—"
The faint voice breaks, and she turns her face away. Even in death it is bitterer than death to give him up.
He lifts his head, and looks at her.
"When she is my wife? when who is my wife?" he asks.
"Nellie—you know," she whispers; "she is worthy of you, Charley—indeed she is, and I never was. And she loves you, and will make you hap—"