The Nineteenth Birth-Day

Edith was nineteen. She was no longer the childish, merry-hearted
maiden formerly known as Edith Hastings. Her cruel disappointment
had ripened her into a sober, quiet woman, whose songs were seldom
heard in the halls of Collingwood, and whose bounding steps had
changed into a slower, more measured tread.

Still, there was in her nature too much of life and vigor to be
crushed out at once, and oftentimes it flashed up with something
of its olden warmth, and the musical laugh fell again on Richard's
listening ear.

He knew she was changed, but he imputed it all to
her long, fearful sickness; when the warm summer days came back,
she would be as gay as ever, he thought, or if she did not he
would in the autumn take her to FLORIDA, to visit Nina, for whom
he fancied she might be pining. Once he said as much to her, but
his blindness was a shield between them, and he did not see the
sudden paling of her cheek and quivering of her lip.

Alas, for Richard, that he walked in so great a darkness. Hour by
hour, day by day, had his love increased for the child of his
adoption, until now she was a part of his very life, pervading
every corner and crevice of his being. He only lived for her, and
in his mighty love, he became selfishly indifferent to all else
around him.