He might be well physically, but it would take a long while to heal the wound in his soul.
“Earle,” Editha said, gravely, meeting his eyes with a steady, earnest look, “what made you speak as you did about doubting the heartiness of my welcome? I can see that you have some reason for it; please tell me—surely you did not think I would have broken my promise—my flowers must have proven that I did not forget.”
Earle gave her a quick, surprised glance.
“That was just why I was in doubt,” he said, flushing slightly. “I have not received a single token of remembrance from you for nearly two years.”
“Earle!”
Editha instantly grew crimson to the line of gold above her forehead, then white as the delicate lace at her throat at this startling intelligence.
What could this strange thing mean? Who could have appropriated her flowers and kept them from him?
Then, with a feeling of shame, not unmixed with indignation, her heart told her that her father, in his prejudice against Earle, must have intercepted them.
“How cruel!” she murmured. “I do not wonder that you doubted my friendship; but, to exonerate myself, I must tell you that every week I have sent you flowers, or fruit, or something, to show you that you were remembered—not once have I failed.”
“Then forgive me for all the hard things I have thought,” he said, in tones of self-reproach. “I can never tell you how those sweet little messages cheered me during my first year in—that place, nor how dreary and lonely I was when they came no longer to brighten my gloomy cell. After Mr. Forrester died,” he continued, with emotion, “I felt as if my only friend had been taken from me. I had not one to whom to turn for a ray of comfort.”