Coming in quickly after, the aunt took firmly hold of his arm and sought to draw him away, but, in a steady voice, the invalid said—­

“No—­no.  I was waiting for him.  I have expected him for days.  I knew he would come; and he is here now.”

All was silence for many minutes; and during this time Edwin Florence sat with his face covered, struggling to command his feelings.  At a motion from the dying girl, the aunt and friend retired, and she was alone with the lover who had been false to his vows.  As the door closed behind them, Edwin looked up.  He had grown calm.  With a voice of inexpressible tenderness, he said—­

“Live for me, Edith.”

“Not here,” was answered.  “The silver chord will soon be loosened and the golden bowl broken.”

“Oh, say not that!  Let me call you back to life.  Turn to me again as I have turned to you with my whole heart.  The world is still beautiful; and in it we will be happy together.”

“No, Edwin,” replied the dying maiden.  “The history of my days here is written, and the angel is about sealing the record.  I am going where the heart will never feel the touch of sorrow.  I wished to see you once more before I died; and you are here.  I have, once more, felt your breath upon my cheek; once more held your hand in mine.  For this my heart is grateful.  You had become the sun of my life, and when your face was turned away, the flower that spread itself joyfully in the light, drooped and faded.  And now, the light has come back again; but it cannot warm into freshness and beauty the withered blossom.”

“Oh, my Edith!  Say not so!  Live for me!  I have no thoughts, no affection that is not for you.  The drooping flower will lift itself again in the sunshine when the clouds have passed away.”

As the young man said this, Edith raised herself up suddenly, and, with a fond gesture, flung herself forward upon his bosom.  For a few moments her form quivered in his arms.  Then all became still, and he felt her lying heavier and heavier against him.  In a little while he was conscious that he clasped to his heart only the earthly semblance of one who had passed away forever.

Replacing the light and faded form of her who, a little while before, had been in the vigor of health, upon the bed, Edwin gazed upon the sunken features for a few moments, and then, leaving a last kiss upon her cold lips, hurried aware.

Another page in his Book of Life was written, There was another record there from which memory, in after life, could read.  And such a record!  What would he not have given to erase that page!

When the body of Edith Walter was borne to its last resting-place, Florence was among the mourners.  After looking his last look upon the coffin that contained the body, he went away, sadder in heart than he had ever been in his life.  He was not only a prey to sadness, but to painful self-accusation.  In his perfidy lay the cause of her death.  He had broken the heart that confided in him, and only repented of his error when it was too late to repair the ruin.