But time did not settle it, for Edith Sinclair, for some unexplained reason, was growing pale and listless. Something was wearing her nerves, and at last she was really ill. Naturally frail, and loving one to whom she could not make known her feelings, the repression, uncertainty, and perhaps surprise that no word was spoken finally culminated in her illness.
A physician was called, a woman who had long been the friend of the family; she divined some trouble that was not apparent to the world. One morning when she came, taking Edith’s hand she said, “Dear, I think something is worrying you. Would you mind telling me so that I can help you, perhaps?”
“There is nothing to be done, doctor,” said the girl sadly, as tears came into her large, dark eyes. “I have everything in this beautiful home, but I don’t care for it.”
“But what would make you happy—to go away for a time and have change of air and scenery?”
“No, I would rather stay here. I am too tired to go away.”
“Edith, I must tell you what I think is the truth. You love Mr. Thomas, and are unwilling that he or anybody should know it.”
“I admire him very much,” said the girl slowly.
“But why have you never let him see that you liked him?”
“I couldn’t do that, doctor. He knows that we are good friends.”
“Has he ever spoken of marriage?”