The Decision

The summer was over and gone; its last breath had died away amid
the New England hills, and the mellow October days had come, when
in the words of America's sweetest poetess, "The woods stand bare and brown,
And into the lap of the South land,
The flowers are blowing down."

Over all there was that dreamy, languid haze, so common to the
Autumn time, when the distant hills are bathed in a smoky light
and all things give token of decay. The sun, round and red, as the
October sun is wont to be, shone brightly upon Collingwood, and
looked cheerily into the room where Edith Hastings sat, waiting
apparently for some one whose tardy appearance filled her with
impatience. In her hand she held a tiny note received the previous
night, and as she read for the twentieth time the few lines
contained therein, her blushes deepened on her cheek, and her
blank eyes grew softer and more subdued in their expression.

"Edith," the note began, "I must see you alone. I have something
to say to you which a third person cannot hear. May I come to
Collingwood to-morrow at three o'clock, P.M.? In haste, Arthur St.
Claire."

The words were very cold, but to Edith they contained a world of
meaning. She knew she was beloved by Arthur St. Claire. Dr.
Griswold had told her so. Grace had told her so. Nina had told her
so, while more than all his manner had told her so repeatedly, and
now HE would tell her so himself and had chosen a time when
Richard and Victor were both in Boston, as the one best adapted to
the interview.