He would
rather not if it could be avoided, for he knew how keen the pang
it would indict upon his noble master, and he would not add one
unnecessary drop to the cup of sorrow he saw preparing for poor
Richard.
After a few days of listless languor and pining home-sickness,
Edith settled into her olden routine of reading, talking and
singing to Richard, who thought himself happy even though she did
not caress him as often as she used to do, and was sometimes
impatient and even ill-natured towards him.
"She mourns so much for Nina," was the excuse which Richard wrote
down in his heart for all her sins, either of omission or
commission; and in a measure he was right.
Edith did mourn for sweet little Nina, but mourned not half so
much for her as for the hopes forever fled--for Arthur, at whose
silence she greatly marvelled, thinking that she would write to
him as to her brother, and then shrinking from the task because
she knew not what to say.
Spite of her feelings the six months she had thought so long were
passing far too rapidly to suit her.
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