It was but a few days after the conversation just narrated that another of a different character took place between two of the parties interested. Edith was returning from a visit to a sick friend, just as evening was closing in, when she was met at her door, by Edward Ellis.
“Come with me, Edith,” said Edward hurriedly, “wrap your shawl about you, and walk with me on the Battery.”
“Not now, Mr. Ellis,” replied Edith, “it is quite late, and little Madge is waiting for me to sing her to sleep.”
“Psha! Edith, you are always thinking of some family matter; do you ever think of your own wishes?”
“Yes,” replied Edith, laughing, “and I confess I should prefer a pleasant walk with you to a warm and noisy nursery.”
“Then come,” said Edward, drawing her arm through his, “I have something of great consequence to say to you.”
Edith looked surprised, but the expression of Edward’s countenance was anxious and troubled, so she offered no further opposition. They entered the Battery, and walked along the river side, for some minutes in perfect silence, before Edward could summon courage to enter upon the subject nearest his thoughts. At length as they turned into a less frequented path, he abruptly exclaimed, “Do you know, Edith, that I am going away?”
Edith’s heart gave a sudden bound, and then every pulsation seemed as suddenly to cease, as with trembling voice she uttered a faint exclamation of astonishment.
“You are surprised, Edith, I knew you would be so, but have you no other feeling at this announcement of my departure? Nay, turn not your sweet face from me; I must know whether your heart responds to mine.”
Edith blushed and trembled as she thus listened, for the first time, to the voice of passionate tenderness. Feelings which had long been growing up unnoticed in her heart, and to which she had never thought of giving a name—fancies, beautiful in their vagueness,—emotions undefined and undetermined, but still pleasant in the indulgence,—all the