Now was Edith's time if ever, and thrusting the worsted work she
was crocheting into her pocket, she stepped to the library door
and said pleasantly "You seem to be in a deep study. Possibly you
don't want me now?"
"Yes, I do," he answered quickly. "I always want you."
"And can always do without me, too, I dare say," Edith rejoined
playfully, as she took her seat upon a low ottoman, near him.
"No, I couldn't," and Richard sighed heavily. "If I had not you I
should not care to live. I dreamed last night that you were dead,
that you died while I was gone, and I dug you up with my own hands
just to look upon your face again. I always see you in my sleep. I
am not blind then, and when a face fairer, more beautiful than any
of which the poets ever sang flits before me, I whisper to myself,
'that's Edith,--that's my daylight.'"
"Oh, mistaken man," Edith returned, laughingly, "how terribly you
would be disappointed could you be suddenly restored to sight and
behold the long, lank, bony creature _I_ know as Edith Hastings--
low forehead, turned-up nose, coarse, black hair, all falling out,
black eyes, yellowish black skin, not a particle of red in it--the
fever took that away and has not brought it back.
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