He could not
see the eagerness of the fair young face upturned to his--the
clear, truthful light shining in Edith's beautiful dark eyes,
telling better than words could tell that she was sincere in her
desire to join her sweet spring life with his autumn days. He
could not see this, else human flesh had proved too weak to say
what he did say at last.
"No, my darling, I cannot accept a love born of gratitude and
nothing more. You remember a former conversation concerning this
Eloise when you told me you were glad you were not she, as in case
you were you should feel compelled to be grateful, or something
like that, where as you would rather render your services to me
from love. Edith, that remark prevented me from telling you then
that you were Eloise, the Swedish mother's baby."
Never before had the words "that Swedish mother" touched so tender
a chord in Edith's heart as now, and forgetting every thing in her
intense desire to know something of her own early history, she
exclaimed, "You knew my mother, Richard. You have heard her voice,
seen her face; now tell me of her, please.
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