Edith at Home

Edith sighed, not because she felt the bonds to which Victor had
alluded, but because she reproached herself for not having been
there to welcome the blind man home when she knew how much he
thought of these little attentions.

"I'll make amends though, now," she said, and remembering the
story of his disappointment, her heart swelled with a fresh
feeling of pity for the helpless Richard, who, sitting before the
blazing fire in the library, did not hear the light step coming so
softly toward him.

All the way from the station, and indeed all the way from New
York, he had pictured to himself Edith's sylph-like form running
down the steps to meet him; had felt her warm hands in his, heard
her sweet voice welcoming him home again, and the world around him
was filled with daylight, but Edith was the sun which shone upon
his darkness. She was dearer to him now, if possible, than when he
left Collingwood, for, during his absence he had learned that
which, if she knew it, would bind her to him by cords of gratitude
too strong to be lightly broken.

SHE owed everything to him, and
he, alas, he groaned when he thought WHAT he owed to her, but he
loved her all the same, and this it was which added to the
keenness of his disappointment when among the many feet which
hastened out to meet him, he listened for hers in vain. He knew it
was very pleasant in his little library whither Victor led him;
very pleasant to sit in his accustomed chair, and feel the fire-
light shining on his face, but there was something missing, and
the blue veins were swelling on his forehead, and the lines
deepening about his mouth, when a pair of soft, white arms were
wound about his neck, two soft white hands patted his bearded
cheeks, and a voice, whose every tone made his heart throb and
beat with ecstasy, murmured in his ear, "Dear Mr. Richard, I am so glad you've come home, and so sorry I was not here to meet you. I did not expect you to-night.