ment. You have my friendship, my highest regard, my most sincere gratitude—You have more; you have my word and my faith—But, O, forgive me, for the fault is not mine—you have not my love, and I cannot marry you without a sin!"
"You dream, my dearest Edith!" said Evandale, perplexed in the utmost degree—"you let your imagination beguile you; this is but some delusion of an over-sensitive mind; the person whom you preferred to me has been long in a better world, where your unavailing regret cannot follow him, er, if it could, would only diminish his happiness."
"You are mistaken, Lord Evandale," said Edith, solemnly. "I am not a sleepwalker or a mad woman. No—I could not have believed from any one what I have seen. But; having seen him, I must believe mine own eyes."
"Seen him?—seen whom?" asked Lord Evandale, in great anxiety.
"Henry Morton," replied Edith, utter-
