And Mrs. Waugh found herself in a small, half-darkened room, where,
reclining in an easy chair, sat--Edith? Was it Edith? Could it be Edith?
That fair phantom of a girl to whom the black ringlets and black dress
alone seemed to give outline and personality? Yes, it was Edith! But,
oh! so changed! so wan and transparent, with such blue shadows in the
hollows of her eyes and temples and cheeks--with such heavy, heavy
eyelids, seemingly dragged down by the weight of their long, sleeping
lashes--with such anguish in the gaze of the melting, dark eyes!
"Edith, my love! My dearest Edith!" said Mrs. Waugh, going to her.
She half arose, and sank speechless into the kind arms opened to receive
her. Mrs. Waugh held her to her bosom a moment in silence, and then
said:
"Edith, my dear, I got a note from your friend, Miss Mayfield, saying
that you had returned, and wished to see me. But how is this, my child?
You have evidently been very ill--you are still. Where is your husband,
Edith? Edith, where is your husband?"
A shiver that shook her whole frame--a choking, gasping sob, was all the
answer she could make.
"Where is he, Edith? Ordered away somewhere, upon some distant service?
That is hard, but never mind! Hope for the best! You will meet him
again, dear? But where is he, then?"
She lifted up her poor head, and uttering--"Dead! dead!" dropped it
heavily again upon the kind, supporting bosom.
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