“Grapes,” screamed Edith, as she saw the rich purple clusters, which had been put up for winter use by poor, discarded Mrs. Johnson.  “I really cannot go till I have some of them,” and as there was no alternative Richard sat down to wait the little lady’s pleasure.

He did not care for lunch, but joined in the conversation, which turned upon matrimony.

“It must be a very delightful state,” said Edith, “provided one were well matched and loved her husband, as I am sure I should do.”

“Supposing you didn’t love him,” asked Grace, “but had married him from force of circumstances, what then?”

“I’d kill him and the circumstances too,” answered Edith.  “Wouldn’t you, Mr. St. Claire?”

“I can hardly tell,” he replied, “not having matrimony in my mind. I shall never marry.”

“Never marry!” and the pang at Edith’s heart was discernible in her soft, black eyes, turned so quickly toward this candidate for celibacy.

“How long since you came to that decision?” asked Grace; and in tones which indicated truth, Arthur replied,

“Several years at least, and I have never for a moment changed my mind.”

“Because the right one has not come, perhaps,” put in Richard, growing very much interested in the conversation.

“The right one will never come,” and Arthur spoke earnestly.  “The girl does not live, who can ever be to me a wife, were she graceful as a fawn and beautiful as—–­” he glanced at Edith as if he would call her name, but added instead—­“as a Hebe, it could make no difference.  That matter is fixed, and is as changeless as the laws of the Medes and Persians.”

“I am sorry for you, young man,” said Richard, whose face, notwithstanding this assertion, indicated anything but sorrow.

He could now trust Edith alone at Grassy Spring—­he need not always be bored with coming there, and he was glad Arthur had so freely expressed his sentiments, as it relieved him of a great burden; so, at parting, when Arthur said to him us usual, “I’ll see you again on Friday,” he replied,

“I don’t know, I’m getting so worried with these abominably tedious lessons, that for once I’ll let her come alone.”

Alas, poor, deluded Richard!  He did not know that to attain this very object, Arthur had said what he did.  It is true, he meant every word he uttered.  Matrimony and Edith Hastings must not be thought of together.  That were worse than madness, and his better judgment warned him not to see too much of her—­told him it was better far to have that sightless man beside them when they met together in a relation so intimate as the teacher bears to his pupil.  But Arthur would not listen; Edith was the first who for years had really touched a human chord in his palsied heart, and the vibration would not cease without a fiercer struggle than he cared to make.  It could do no harm, he said.  He had been so unhappy—­was so unhappy now.