"Miss Edith," pleaded he in the same hoarse,
passionate undertone, "have pity on me, and
do not despise me. I love you--oh--if you
would but allow me to die for you, I should be
the happiest of men."
Again he shuddered, and stood long gazing
at her with a mute, pitiful appeal. A tear stole
into Edith's eye and trickled down over her
cheek.
"Ah, Mr. Birch," she murmured, while a
sigh shook her bosom, "I am sorry--very sorry
that this misfortune has happened to you. You
have deserved a better fate than to love me--to
love a woman who can never give you anything
in return for what you give her."
"Never?" he repeated mournfully, "never?"
"No, never! You have been a good friend
to me, and as such I value you highly, and I had
hoped that you would always remain so. But
I see that it cannot be. It will perhaps be best
for you henceforth not to see me, at least not
until--pardon the expression--you have out-
lived this generous folly. And now, you know,
you will need me no more. You have made a
splendid reputation, and if you choose to avail
yourself of it, your fortune is already made. I
shall always rejoice to hear of your success, and
--and if you should ever need a FRIEND, you
must come to no one but me. I know that these
are feeble words, Mr. Birch, and if they seem
cold to you, you must pardon me. I can say
nothing more."
They were indeed feeble words, although
most cordially spoken. He tried to weigh them,
to measure their meaning, but his mind was as
if benumbed, and utterly incapable of thought.
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