Perhaps they spared
me in their pity for my misfortune. At all events, no one has come
between us, not even Arthur St. Claire, who is every way a
desirable match for her."
Again that choked, stifled moan, and a ring of blood told where
the sharp nail had been, but Edith heeded nothing save Richard's
voice, saying to her,
"You have heard of little streams trickling from the heart of some
grim old mountain, growing in size and strength as they advanced,
until at last they became a mighty river, whose course nothing
could impede, Such, Edith, is my love for that singing bird.
Little by little, inch by inch, it has grown in its intensity
until there is not a pulsation of my being which does not bear
with it thoughts of her. But my bird is young while I am old. Her
mate should be one on whose head the summer dews are resting, one
more like Arthur St Claire, and not an owl of forty years growth
like me; but she has not chosen such an one, and hope has
whispered to the tough old owl that his bright-eyed dove might be
coaxed into his nest; might fold her wings there forever, nor seek
to fly away.
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