In a little while he
was conscious that he clasped to his heart only the earthly
semblance of one who had passed away forever.
Replacing the light and faded form of her who, a little while
before, had been in the vigor of health, upon the bed, Edwin gazed
upon the sunken features for a few moments, and then, leaving a last
kiss upon her cold lips, hurried aware.
Another page in his Book of Life was written, There was another
record there from which memory, in after life, could read. And such
a record! What would he not have given to erase that page!
When the body of Edith Walter was borne to its last resting-place,
Florence was among the mourners. After looking his last look upon
the coffin that contained the body, he went away, sadder in heart
than he had ever been in his life. He was not only a prey to
sadness, but to painful self-accusation. In his perfidy lay the
cause of her death. He had broken the heart that confided in him,
and only repented of his error when it was too late to repair the
ruin.
As to what was thought or said of him by others, Edwin Florence
cared but little. There was enough of pain in his own
self-consciousness.
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