One day he called on Edith. He was not as cold as he had been, but he was, from some cause, evidently embarrassed.
"Edith," said he, taking her hand—it was weeks since he had touched her hand except in meeting and parting—"I need not say how highly I regard you. How tenderly I love you, even as I could love a pure and gentle sister. But—"
He paused, for he saw that Edith's face had become very pale; and that she rather gasped for air than breathed.
"Are you sick?" he asked, in a voice of anxiety.
Edith was recovering herself.
"No," she replied, faintly.
A deep silence, lasting for the space of nearly half a minute, followed. By this time the maiden, through a forced effort, had regained the command of her feelings. Perceiving this, Edwin resumed—
"As I said, Edith, I love you as I could love a pure and gentle sister. Will you accept this love? Will you be to me a friend—a sister?"
Again there passed upon the countenance of Edith a deadly pallor; while her lips quivered, and her eyes had a strange expression. This soon passed away, and again something of its former repose was in her face. At the first few words of Florence, Edith withdrew the hand he had taken. He now sought it again, but she avoided the contact.
"You do not answer me, Edith," said the young man.