Heart-Histories and Life-Pictures | Page 2

any
repentance, bring back the time that is gone, nor alter the writing on the
page of memory. Ah! my young friend, if I could only erase some
pages in the book of my memory, that almost daily open themselves
before the eyes of my mind, how thankful I would be! But this I cannot
do. There are acts of my life for which repentance only avails as a
process of purification and preparation for a better state in the future; it
in no way repairs wrong done to others. Keep the pages of your
memory free from blots, Edwin. Guard the hand writing there as you
value your best and highest interests!"
Edwin Florence listened, but only half comprehended what was said by
his aged friend. An hour afterwards he was sitting by the side of a
maiden, her hand in his, and her eyes looking tenderly upon his face.
She was not beautiful in the sense that the world regards beauty. Yet,
no one could be with her an hour without perceiving the higher and

truer beauty of a pure and lovely spirit. It was this real beauty of
character which had attracted Edwin Florence; and the young girl's
heart had gone forth to meet the tender of affection with an impulse of
gladness.
"You love me, Edith?" said Edwin, in a low voice, as he bent nearer,
and touched her pure forehead with his lips.
"As my life," replied the maiden, and her eyes were full of love as she
spoke.
Again the young man kissed her.
In low voices, leaning towards each other until the breath of each was
warm on the other's cheek, they sat conversing for a long time. Then
they separated; and both were happy. How sweet were the maiden's
dreams that night, for, in every picture that wandering fancy drew, was
the image of her lover!
Daily thus they met for a long time. Then there was a change in Edwin
Florence. His visits were less frequent, and when he met the young girl,
whose very life was bound up in his, his manner had in it a reserve that
chilled her heart as if an icy hand had been laid upon it. She asked for
no explanation of the change; but, as he grew colder, she shrunk more
and more into herself, like a flower folding its withering leaves when
touched by autumn's frosty fingers.
One day he called on Edith. He was not as cold as he had been, but he
was, from some cause, evidently embarrassed.
"Edith," said he, taking her hand--it was weeks since he had touched
her hand except in meeting and parting--"I need not say how highly I
regard you. How tenderly I love you, even as I could love a pure and
gentle sister. But--"
He paused, for he saw that Edith's face had become very pale; and that
she rather gasped for air than breathed.

"Are you sick?" he asked, in a voice of anxiety.
Edith was recovering herself.
"No," she replied, faintly.
A deep silence, lasting for the space of nearly half a minute, followed.
By this time the maiden, through a forced effort, had regained the
command of her feelings. Perceiving this, Edwin resumed--
"As I said, Edith, I love you as I could love a pure and gentle sister.
Will you accept this love? Will you be to me a friend--a sister?"
Again there passed upon the countenance of Edith a deadly palor; while
her lips quivered, and her eyes had a strange expression. This soon
passed away, and again something of its former repose was in her face.
At the first few words of Florence, Edith withdrew the hand he had
taken. He now sought it again, but she avoided the contact.
"You do not answer me, Edith," said the young man.
"Do you wish an answer?" This was uttered in a scarcely audible voice.
"I do, Edith," was the earnest reply. "Let there be no separation
between us. You are to me what you have ever been, a dearly prized
friend. I never meet you that my heart does not know an impulse for
good--I never think of you but--"
"Let us be as strangers!" said Edith, rising abruptly. And turning away,
she fled from the room.
Slowly did the young man leave the apartment in which they were
sitting, and without seeing any member of the family, departed from
the house. There was a record on his memory that time would have no
power to efface. It was engraved too deeply for the dust of years to
obliterate. As he went, musing away, the pale face of Edith was before
him; and the anguish of her voice, as she said, "Let us be as strangers,"
was in his ears. He