Avoiding as much as possible the society of Mrs. Murray's guests, as well as that of her son, Edna turned to her books with increased energy and steadfastness, while her manner was marked by a studied reticence hitherto unnoticed. The house was thronged with visitors, and families residing in the neighborhood were frequently invited to dinner; but the orphan generally contrived on these occasions to have an engagement at the parsonage; and as Mrs. Murray no longer required, or seemed to desire her presence, she spent much of her time alone, and rarely saw the members of the household, except at breakfast. She noticed that Mr. Allston either felt or feigned unbounded admiration for Estelle, who graciously received his devoted attentions; while Mr. Murray now and then sneered openly at both, and appeared daily more impatient to quit the home, of which he spoke with undisguised disgust. As day after day and week after week slipped by without bringing tidings of Edna's MS., her heart became oppressed with anxious forebodings, and she found it difficult to wait patiently for the verdict upon which hung all her hopes.

One Thursday afternoon, when a number of persons had been invited to dine at Le Bocage, and Mrs. Murray was engrossed by preparations for their entertainment, Edna took her Greek books and stole away unobserved to the parsonage, where she spent a quiet evening in reading aloud from the Organon of Aristotle.

It was quite late when Mr. Hammond took her home in his buggy, and bade her good-night at the doorstep. As she entered the house she saw several couples promenading on the veranda, and heard Estelle and Clinton Allston singing a duet from "Il Trovatore." Passing the parlor door, one quick glance showed her Mr. Murray and Mr. Leigh standing together under the chandelier—the latter gentleman talking earnestly, the former with his gaze fastened on the carpet, and a chilling smile fixed on his lip. The faces of the two presented a painful contrast—one fair, hopeful, bright with noble aims, and youthful yet manly beauty; the other swarthy, cold, repulsive as some bronze image of Abaddon. For more than three weeks Edna had not spoken to Mr. Murray, except to say "good-morning," as she entered the dining-room or passed him in the hall; and now, with a sigh which she did not possess the courage to analyze, she went up to her room and sat down to read.

Among the books on her desk was Machiavelli's Prince and History of Florence, and the copy, which was an exceedingly handsome one, contained a portrait of the author. Between the regular features of the Florentine satirist and those of the master of the house, Edna had so frequently found a startling resemblance, that she one day mentioned the subject to Mrs. Murray, who, after a careful examination of the picture, was forced to admit, rather ungraciously, that, "they certainly looked somewhat alike." To-night, as the orphan lifted the volume from its resting-place, it opened at the portrait, and she looked long at the handsome face which, had the lips been thinner, and the hair thicker and more curling at the temples, might have been daguerreotyped from that one downstairs under the chandelier.

One maxim of the Prince had certainly been adopted by Mr. Murray, "It is safer to be feared than to be loved"; and, while the orphan detested the crafty and unscrupulous policy of Niccolo Machiavelli, her reason told her that the character of St. Elmo Murray was scarcely more worthy of respect.

She heard the guests take their departure, heard Mrs. Murray ask Hagar whether "Edna had returned from the parsonage," and then doors were closed and the house grew silent.

Vain were the girl's efforts to concentrate her thoughts on her books or upon her MS., they wandered toward the portrait; and, finally remembering that she needed a book of reference, she lighted a candle, took the copy of Machiavelli, which she determined to put out of sight, and went down to the library. The smell of a cigar aroused her suspicions as she entered, and, glancing nervously around the room, she saw Mr. Murray seated before the window.

His face was turned from her, and, hoping to escape unnoticed, she was retracing her steps when he rose.

"Come in, Edna. I am waiting for you, for I knew you would be here some time before day."

Taking the candle from her hand, he held it close to her face, and compressed his lips tightly for an instant.

"How long do you suppose your constitution will endure the tax you impose upon it? Midnight toil has already robbed you of your color, and converted a rosy, robust child into a pale, weary, hollow-eyed woman. What do you want here?"

"The Edda."

"What business have you with Norse myths, with runes and scalds and sagas? You can't have the book. I carried it to my room yesterday, and I am in no mood to-night to play errand-boy for any one."

Edna turned to place the copy of Machiavelli on the shelves, and he continued:

"It is a marvel that the index expurgatorius of your saintly tutor does not taboo the infamous doctrines of the greatest statesman of Italy. I am told that you do me the honor to discover a marked likeness between his countenance and mine. May I flatter myself so highly as to believe the statement?"

"Even your mother admits the resemblance."

"Think you the analogy extends further than the mere physique, or do you trace it only in the corporeal development?"

"I believe, sir, that your character is as much a counterpart of his as your features; that your code is quite as lax as his."

She had abstained from looking at him, but now her eyes met his fearlessly, and in their beautiful depths he read an expression of helpless repulsion, such as a bird might evince for the serpent whose glittering eyes enchained it.

"Ah! at least your honesty is refreshing in these accursed days of hypocritical sycophancy! I wonder how much more training it will require before your lips learn fashionable lying tricks? But you understand me as little as the world understood poor Machiavelli, of whom Burke justly remarked, 'He is obliged to bear the iniquities of those whose maxims and rules of government he published. His speculation is more abhorred than their practice.' We are both painted blacker than—"

"I came here, sir, to discuss neither his character nor yours. It is a topic for which I have as little leisure as inclination. Good-night, Mr. Murray."

He bowed low, and spoke through set teeth:

"I regret the necessity of detaining you a moment longer, but I believe you have been anxiously expecting a letter for some time, as I hear that you every day anticipate my inquiries at the post-office. This afternoon the express agent gave me this package."

He handed her a parcel and smiled as he watched the startled look, the expression of dismay, of keen disappointment that came into her face.

The frail bark had struck the reefs; she felt that her hopes were going down to ruin, and her lips quivered with pain as she recognized Mr. Manning's bold chirography on the paper wrapping.

"What is the matter, child?"

"Something that concerns only myself."

"Are you unwilling to trust me with your secret, whatever it may be? I would sooner find betrayal from the grinning skeletons in monastic crypts than from my lips."

Smothering a sigh, she shook her head impatiently.

"That means that red-hot steel could not pinch it out of you; and that, despite your boasted charity and love of humanity, you really entertain as little confidence in your race as it is my pleasure to indulge. I applaud your wisdom, but certainly did not credit you with so much craftiness. My reason for not delivering the parcel more promptly was simply the wish to screen you from the Argus scrutiny with which we are both favored by some now resident at Bocage. As your letters subjected you to suspicion, I presumed it would be more agreeable to you to receive them without witnesses."

He took a letter from his pocket and gave it to her.

"Thank you, Mr. Murray; you are very kind."

"Pardon me! that is indeed a novel accusation! Kind, I never professed to be. I am simply not quite a brute, nor altogether a devil of the most malicious and vindictive variety, as you doubtless consider it your religious duty to believe. However, having hopelessly lost my character, I shall not trespass on your precious time by wasting words in pronouncing a eulogy upon it, as Antony did over the stabbed corpse of Caesar! I stand in much the same relation to society that King John did to Christendom, when Innocent III. excommunicated him; only I snap my fingers in the face of my pontiff, the world, and jingle my Peter-pence in my pocket; whereas poor John's knees quaked until he found himself at the feet of Innocent, meekly receiving Langton, and paying tribute! Child, you are in trouble; and your truthful countenance reveals it as unmistakably as did the Phrygian reeds that babbled of the personal beauties of Midas. Of course, it does not concern me—it is not my business—and you certainly have as good a right as any other child of Adam, to fret and cry and pout over your girlish griefs, to sit up all night, ruin your eyes, and grow rapidly and prematurely old and ugly. But whenever I chance to stumble over a wounded creature trying to drag itself out of sight, I generally either wring its neck, or set my heel on it, to end its torment; or else, if there is a fair prospect of the injury healing by 'first intention,' I take it gently on the tip of my boot, and help it out of my way. Something has hurt you, and I suspect I can aid you. Your anxiety about those letters proves that you doubt your idol. You and your lover have quarreled? Be frank with me; tell me his name, and I swear upon the honor of a gentleman I will rectify the trouble—will bring him in contrition to your feet."

Whether he dealt in irony, as was his habit, or really meant what he said, she was unable to determine; and her quick glance at his countenance showed her only a dangerous sparkle in his eyes.

"Mr. Murray, you are wrong in your conjecture; I have no lover."

"Oh, call him what you please! I shall not presume to dictate your terms of endearment. I merely wish to say that if poverty stands forbiddingly between you and happiness, why, command me to the extent of half my fortune, I will give you a dowry that shall equal the expectations of any ambitious suitor in the land. Trust me, child, with your sorrow and I will prove a faithful friend. Who has your heart?"

The unexpected question alarmed and astonished her, and a shivering dread took possession of her that he suspected her real feelings, and was laughing at her folly. Treacherous blood began to paint confusion in her face, and vehement and rapid were her words.

"God and my conscience own my heart. I know no man to whom I would willingly give it; and the correspondence to which you allude contains not a syllable of love. My time is rather too valuable to be frittered away in such trifling."

"Edna, would you prefer to have me a sworn ally or an avowed enemy?"

"I should certainly prefer to consider you as neither."

"Did you ever know me fail in any matter which I had determined to accomplish?"

"Yes, sir; your entire life is a huge, hideous, woeful failure, which mocks and maddens you."

"What the d—l do you know of my life? It is not ended yet, and it remains to be seen whether a grand success is not destined to crown it. Mark you! the grapple is not quite over, and I may yet throttle the furies whose cursed fingers clutched me in my boyhood. If I am conquered finally, take my oath for it, I shall die so hard that the howling hags will be welcome to their prey. Single-handed, I am fighting the world, the flesh, and the devil, and I want neither inspection, nor sympathy, nor assistance. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir. And as I certainly desire to thrust neither upon you, I will bid you good-night."

"One moment! What does that package contain?"

"The contents belong exclusively to me—could not possibly interest you—would only challenge your sarcasm, and furnish food for derision. Consequently, Mr. Murray, you must excuse me if I decline your question."

"I'll wager my title to Le Bocage that I can guess so accurately that you will regret that you did not make a grace of necessity and tell me."

A vague terror overshadowed her features as she examined the seals on the package, and replied:

"That, sir, is impossible, if you are the honorable gentleman I have always tried to force myself to believe."

"Silly child! Do you imagine I would condescend to soil my fingers with the wax that secures that trash? That I could stoop to an inspection of the correspondence of a village blacksmith's granddaughter? I will give you one more chance to close the breach between us by proving your trust. Edna, have you no confidence in me?"

"None, Mr. Murray."

"Will you oblige me by looking me full in the face, and repeating your flattering words?"

She raised her head, and though her heart throbbed fiercely as she met his eyes, her voice was cold, steady and resolute.

"None, Mr. Murray."

"Thank you. Some day those same red lips will humbly, tremblingly crave my pardon for what they utter now; and then, Edna Earl, I shall take my revenge, and you will look back to this night and realize the full force of my parting words—voe victis!"

He stooped and picked up a bow of rose-colored ribbon which had fallen from her throat, handed it to her, smiled, and, with one of those low, graceful, haughty bows so indicative of his imperious nature, he left the library. A moment after, she heard his peculiar laugh, mirthless and bitter, ring through the rotunda; then the door was slammed violently, and quiet reigned once more through the mansion.

Taking the candle from the table, where Mr. Murray had placed it, Edna went back to her own room and sat down before the window.

On her lap lay the package and letter, which she no longer felt any desire to open, and her hands drooped listlessly at her side. The fact that her MS. was returned rung a knell for all her sanguine hopes, for such was her confidence in the critical acumen of Mr. Manning that she deemed it utterly useless to appeal to any other tribunal. A higher one she knew not; a lower she scorned to consult.

She felt like Alice Lisle on that day of doom, when Jeffreys pronounced the fatal sentence; and, after a time, when she summoned courage to open the letter, her cheeks were wan and her lips compressed so firmly that their curves of beauty were no longer traceable.

"MISS EARL: I return your MS., not because it is devoid of merit, but from the conviction that were I to accept it, the day would inevitably come when you would regret its premature publication. While it contains irrefragable evidence of extraordinary ability, and abounds in descriptions of great beauty, your style is characterized by more strength than polish, and is marred by crudities which a dainty public would never tolerate. The subject you have undertaken is beyond your capacity—no woman could successfully handle it—and the sooner you realize your overestimate of your powers, the sooner your aspirations find their proper level, the sooner you will succeed in your treatment of some theme better suited to your feminine ability. Burn the enclosed MS., the erudition and archaisms of which would fatally nauseate the intellectual dyspeptics who read my 'Maga,' and write sketches of home life-descriptions of places and things that you understand better than recondite analogies of ethical creeds and mythologic systems, or the subtle lore of Coptic priests. Remember that women never write histories or epics; never compose oratorios that go sounding down the centuries; never paint 'Last Suppers' and 'Judgment Days'; though now and then one gives the world a pretty ballad that sounds sweet and soothing when sung over a cradle, or another paints a pleasant little genre sketch which will hang appropriately in some quiet corner and rest and refresh eyes that are weary with gazing at the sublime spiritualism of Fra Bartolomeo, or the gloomy grandeur of Salvator Rosa. If you have any short articles that you desire to see in print, you may forward them, and I will select any for publication, which I think you will not blush to acknowledge in future years.

"Very respectfully,

"Your obedient servant,

"DOUGLASS G. MANNING."

Unwrapping the MS., she laid it with its death-warrant in a drawer, then sat down, crossed her arms on the top of her desk, and rested her head upon them. The face was not concealed, and, as the light shone on it, an experienced physiogomist would have read there profound disappointment, a patient weariness, but unbending, resolution and no vestige of bitterness. The large, thoughtful eyes were sad but dry, and none who looked into them could have imagined for an instant that she would follow the advice she had so eagerly sought. During her long reverie, she wondered whether all women were browbeaten for aspiring to literary honors; whether the poignant pain and mortification gnawing at her heart was the inexorable initiation-fee for entrance upon the arena where fame adjudges laurel crowns, and reluctantly and sullenly drops one now and then on female brows. To possess herself of the golden apple of immortality was a purpose from which she had never swerved; but how to baffle the dragon critics who jealously guarded it was a problem whose solution puzzled her.

To abandon her right to erudition formed no part of the programme which she was mentally arranging as she sat there watching a moth singe its filmy, spotted wings in the gas-flame; for she was obstinately wedded to the unpardonable heresy that, in the nineteenth century, it was a woman's privilege to be as learned as Cuvier, or Sir William Hamilton, or Humboldt, provided the learning was accurate, and gave out no hollow, counterfeit ring under the merciless hammering of the dragons. If women chose to blister their fair, tender hands in turning the windlass of that fabled well where truth is hidden, and bruised their pretty, white feet in groping finally on the rocky bottom, was the treasure which they ultimately discovered and dragged to light any the less truth because stentorian, manly voices were not the first to shout Eureka?

She could not understand why, in the vineyard of letters, the laborer was not equally worthy of hire, whether the work was successfully accomplished in the toga virilis or the gay kirtle of contadina.

Gradually the expression of pain passed from the girl's countenance, and, lifting her head, she took from her desk several small MSS., that she had carefully written from time to time, as her reading suggested the ideas embodied in the articles. Among the number were two, upon which she had bestowed much thought, which she determined to send to Mr. Manning.

One was an elaborate description of that huge iconoclasm attributed to Alcibiades, and considered by some philosophic students of history the chief cause of the ruin of Athens. In order to reflect all possible light on this curious occurrence, she had most assiduously gleaned the pages of history, and massed the grains of truth; had studied maps of the city and descriptions of travellers, that she might thoroughly understand the topography of the scene of the great desecration. So fearful was she of committing some anachronism, or of soaring on the wings of fancy beyond the realm of well-authenticated facts, that she searched the ancient records to ascertain whether on that night in May, 415 B. c., a full or a new moon looked down on the bronze helmet of Minerva Promachus and the fretted frieze of the Parthenon.

The other MS., upon which she had expended much labor, was entitled "Keeping the Vigil of St. Martin Under the Pines of Grutli"; and while her vivid imagination revelled in the weird and solemn surroundings of the lonely place of rendezvous, the sketch contained a glowing and eloquent tribute to the liberators of Helvetia, the Confederates of Schweitz, Uri, and Underwalden.

Whether Mr. Manning would consider either of these articles worthy of preservation in the pages of his magazine, she thought exceedingly doubtful; but she had resolved to make one more appeal to his fastidious judgment, and accordingly sealed and directed the roll of paper.

Weary but sleepless, she pushed back the heavy folds of hair that had fallen on her forehead, brightened the gaslight, and turned to the completion of a chapter in that MS. which the editor had recommended her to commit to the flames. So entirely was she absorbed in her work that the hours passed unheeded. Now and then, when her thoughts failed to flow smoothly into graceful sentence moulds, she laid aside her pen, walked up and down the floor, turning the idea over and over, fitting it first to one phrase, then to another, until the verbal drapery fully suited her.

The whistle of the locomotive at the station told her that it was four o'clock before her task was accomplished; and, praying that God's blessing would rest upon it, she left it unfinished, and threw herself down to sleep.

But slumber brought no relaxation to the busy brain that toiled on in fitful, grotesque dreams; and when sunshine streamed through the open window at the foot of her bed, it showed no warm flush of healthful sleep on the beautiful face, but weariness and pallor. Incoherent words stirred the lips, troubled thought knitted the delicately arched brows, and the white, dimpled arms were tossed restlessly above her head.

Was the tired midnight worker worthy of her hire? The world would one day pay her wages in the currency of gibes, and denunciation, and envious censoriousness; but the praise of men had not tempted her to the vineyard, and she looked in faith to Him "who seeth in secret," and whose rewards are at variance with those of the taskmasters of earth. "Wherefore," O lonely but conscientious student! "be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labor is not in vain."

Literary women, whose avocation is selected simply because they fancy, it easier to write than to sew for bread, or because they covet the applause and adulation heaped upon successful genius, or desire mere notoriety, generally barter their birthright of quiet, life-long happiness in the peaceful seclusion of home for a nauseous mess of poisoned pottage that will not appease their hunger; and they go down to untimely graves disappointed, embittered, hating the public for whose praises they toiled, cheated out of the price for which they bargained away fireside joys and domestic serenity.

The fondest hope of Edna's heart was to be useful in "her day and generation"—to be an instrument of some good to her race; and while she hoped for popularity as an avenue to the accomplishment of her object, the fear of ridicule and censure had no power to deter her from the line of labor upon which she constantly invoked the guidance and blessing of God.

The noble words of Kepler rang a ceaseless silvery chime in her soul, and while they sustained and strengthened her, she sought to mould her life in harmony with their sublime teachings:

"Lo! I have done the work of my life with that power of intellect which thou hast given. If I, a worm before Thine eyes, and born in the bonds of sin, have brought forth anything that is unworthy of Thy counsels, inspire me with Thy spirit, that I may correct it. If by the wonderful beauty of Thy works I have been led into boldness—if I have sought my own honor among men as I advanced in the work which was destined to Thine honor, pardon me in kindness and charity, and by Thy grace grant that my teaching may be to Thy glory and the welfare of all men. Praise ye the Lord, ye heavenly harmonies! and ye that understand the new harmonies, praise ye the Lord!"