A
young girl, who had been as her sister for many years, sat holding
her thin white hand. The face of the invalid was turned to the wall.
Her eyes were closed; and she breathed so quietly that the motions
of respiration could hardly be seen. Nearly ten minutes had elapsed
from the time a servant whispered to the aunt that there was some
one in the parlor, when Edith turned, and said to her companion, in
a low, calm voice--
"Mr. Florence has come."
The girl started, and a flush of surprise went over her face.
"He is in the parlor now. Won't you ask him to come up?" added the
dying maiden, still speaking with the utmost composure.
Her friend stood surprised and hesitating for some moments, and then
turning away, glided from the chamber. She found the aunt and Mr.
Florence in the passage below, the latter pleading with the former
for the privilege of seeing Edith, which was resolutely denied.
"Edith wants to see Mr. Florence," said the girl, as she joined
them.
"Who told her that he was here?" quickly asked the aunt.
"No one. I did not know it myself."
"Her heart told her that I was here," exclaimed Mr. Florence--and,
as he spoke, he glided past the aunt, and, with hurried steps,
ascended to the chamber where the dying one lay.
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