lips that he was speaking. She raised her graceful hands, but saw at once that he did not understand the rapid motion of her fingers. Then taking her slate, which hung on her arm, she wrote on it, "I am deaf and dumb, but I can read what you write." With a sweet smile she gave her touching confession to the stranger. The emotion with which he let the slate fall from his hand was beyond mere pity. With an expression of the tenderest interest he gazed on the lovely countenance that, animated and intelligent, met his own, "And is this sweet child so afflicted also?" exclaimed he in a broken voice.
He could not command himself enough to write the question he meant to ask, and Edith’s quick eye noted the changes of his face, and was naturally struck with the idea of indisposition; she, happy in the cheerful affection of her mother and sister, knew not all the sympathy that she inspired. Again she took up her slate and wrote "Are you ill, our house is very near, if you will rest there." Mr. Bennett, for such was the
