Edith did not go near the Den, and she
marvelled that Arthur should have given her its key, indicating
which it was. She did not know that the rather peculiar young man
had lain for her a snare, by which means he would surely know how
far her curiosity had led her. He might have spared himself the
trouble, for Edith was the soul of honor, and nothing could have
induced her to cross the proscribed threshold.
"It's very pleasant here, isn't it?" Richard asked, as they went
from one room to another, and he felt the soft carpets yield to
his tread.
"Yes," she answered; "but not as pleasant as Collingwood. I like
my own home best," and she looked into his face in time to catch
the expression she loved so well--an expression of trusting,
childlike happiness, touching to behold in a strong man.
He liked to know that Edith was contented with Collingwood;
contented with him; and he hoped it would be so always. He could
not bear the thought that he had suffered every fibre of his heart
to twine and intertwine themselves around her, only to be one day
broken and cast bleeding at his feet.
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