  "Mrs. Powell and her daughter to see Miss Estelle and Miss Edna." "Why did you not say we were at dinner?" cried Mrs. Murray, impatiently, darting an angry glance at the servant. "I did, ma'am, but they said they would wait." As Estelle folded up her napkin and slipped it into the silver ring, she looked furtively at St. Elmo, who, holding up a bunch of purple grapes, said in an indifferent tone to his mother: "The vineyards of Axarquia show nothing more perfect. This cluster might challenge comparison with those from which Red Hermitage is made, and the seeds of which are said to have been brought from Schiraz. Even on the sunny slopes of Cyprus and Naxos I found no finer grapes than these. A propos! I want a basketful this afternoon. Henry, tell old Simon to gather them immediately." "Pray what use have you for them? I am sure the courteous idea of sending them as a present never could have forced an entrance into your mind, much less have carried the outworks of your heart!" As his cousin spoke she came to the back of his chair and leaned over his shoulder. "I shall go out on the terrace and renew the obsolete Dionysia, shouting 'Evoe! Eleleus!' I shall crown and pelt my marble Bacchus yonder with the grapes till his dainty sculptured limbs are bathed in their purple sacrificial blood. What other use could I possibly have for them?" He threw his head back and added something in a lower tone, at which Mrs. Murray frowned, and said sternly: "If you intend to see those persons, I advise you to do so promptly." Her niece moved toward the door, but glanced over her shoulder. "I presume Gertrude expects to see Edna, as she asked for her." The orphan had been watching Mr. Murray's face, but could detect no alteration in its expression, save a brief gleam as of triumph when the visitors were announced. Rising, she approached Mrs. Murray, whose clouded brow betokened more than ordinary displeasure, and whispered: "Gertrude is exceedingly anxious to see the house and grounds; have I your permission to show her over the place? She is particularly anxious to see the deer." "Of course, if she requests it; but their effrontery in coming here caps the climax of all the impudence I ever heard of. Have as little to say as possible." Edna went to the parlor, leaving mother and son together. Mrs. Powell had laid aside her mourning garments and wore a dress of blue muslin which heightened her beauty, and as the orphan looked from her to Gertrude she found it difficult to decide who was the loveliest. After a few desultory remarks she rose, saying: "As you have repeatedly expressed a desire to examine the park and hothouses, I will show you the way this afternoon." "Take care, my love, that you do not fatigue yourself," were Mrs. Powell's low, tenderly spoken words as her daughter rose to leave the room. Edna went first to the greenhouse, and though her companion chattered ceaselessly, she took little interest in her exclamations of delight, and was conjecturing the probable cause of Mrs. Murray's great indignation. For some weeks she had been thrown frequently into the society of Mr. Hammond's guests, and while her distrust of Mrs. Powell, her aversion to her melting, musical voice, increased at every interview, a genuine affection for Gertrude had taken root in her heart. They were the same age, but one was an earnest women, the other a fragile, careless, gleeful, enthusiastic child. Although the orphan found it impossible to make a companion of this beautiful, warm-hearted girl, who hated books and turned pale at the mention of study, still Edna liked to watch the lovely, radiant face, with its cheeks tinted like sea-shells, its soft, childish blue eyes sparkling with joyousness; and she began to caress and to love her, as she would have petted a canary or one of the spotted fawns gamboling over the lawn. As they stood hand in hand, admiring some goldfish in a small aquarium in the centre of the greenhouse, Gertrude exclaimed: "The place is as fascinating as its master! Do tell me something about him; I wonder very often why you never mention him. I know I ought not to say it; but really, after he has talked to me for a few minutes, I forget every thing else, and think only of what he says for days and days after." "You certainly do not allude to Mr. Murray?" said Edna. "I certainly do. What makes you look so astonished?" "I was not aware that you knew him." "Oh! I have known him since the week after our arrival here. Mamma and I met him at Mrs. Inge's. Mr. Inge had some gentlemen to dinner, and they came into the parlor while we were calling. Mr. Murray sat down and talked to me then for some time, and I have frequently met him since; for it seems he loves to stroll about the woods almost as well as I do, and sometimes we walk together. You know he and my uncle are not friendly, and I believe mamma does not like him, so he never comes to the parsonage; and never seems to see me if I am with her or Uncle Allan. But is he not very fascinating? If he were not a little too old for me, I believe I should really be very much in love with him." An expression of disgust passed swiftly over Edna's pale face; she dropped her companion's hand, and asked coldly: "Does your mother approve of your walks with Mr. Murray?" "For heaven's sake, don't look so solemn! I—she—really I don't know! I never told her a word about it. Once I mentioned having met him, and showed her some flowers he gave me; and she took very little notice of the matter. Several times since he has sent me bouquets, and though I kept them out of uncle's sight, she saw them in my room, and must have suspected where they came from. Of course he can not come to the parsonage to see me when he does not speak to my uncle or to mamma; but I do not see any harm in his walking and talking with me, when I happen to meet him. Oh! how lovely those lilies are, leaning over the edge of the aquarium! Mr. Murray said that some day he would show me all the beautiful things at Le Bocage; but he has forgotten his promise, I am afraid and I—" "Ah! Miss Gertrude, how could you doubt me? I am here to fulfill my promise." He pushed aside the boughs of a guava which stood between them, and, coming forward, took Gertrude's hand, drew it under his arm, and looked down eagerly, admiringly, into her blushing face. "Oh, Mr. Murray! I had no idea you were anywhere near me. I am sure I could—" "Did you imagine you could escape my eyes, which are always seeking you? Permit me to be your cicerone over Le Bocage, instead of Miss Edna here, who looks as if she had been scolding you. Perhaps she will be so good as to wait for us, and I will bring you back in a half-hour at least." "Edna, will you wait here for me?" asked Gertrude. "Why can not Mr. Murray bring you to the house? There is nothing more to see here." "Allow us to judge for ourselves, if you please. There is a late Paris paper, which will amuse you till we return." St. Elmo threw a newspaper at her feet, and led Gertrude away through one of the glass doors into the park. Edna sat down on the edge of the aquarium, and the hungry little fish crowded close to her, looking up wistfully for the crumbs she was wont to scatter there daily; but now their mute appeal was unheeded. Her colorless face and clasped hands grew cold as the marble basin on which they rested, and the great, hopeless agony that seized her heart came to her large eyes and looked out drearily. It was in vain that she said to herself: "St. Elmo Murray is nothing to me; why should I care if he loves Gertrude? She is so beautiful and confiding and winning. Of course, if he knows her well he must love her. It is no business of mine. We are not even friends; we are worse than strangers; and it can not concern me whom he loves or whom he hates." Her own heart laughed her words to scorn, and answered defiantly: "He is my king! my king! I have crowned and sceptred him, and right royally he rules!" In pitiable humiliation she acknowledged that she had found it impossible to tear her thoughts from him; that his dark face followed—haunted her, sleeping and waking. While she shrank from his presence, and dreaded his character, she could not witness his fond manner to Gertrude without a pang of the keenest pain she had ever endured. The suddenness of the discovery shocked her into a thorough understanding of her own feelings. The grinning fiend of jealousy had swept aside the flimsy veil which she had never before fully lifted; and looking sorrowfully down into the bared holy of holies, she saw standing between the hovering wings of golden cherubim an idol of clay demanding homage, daring the wrath of conscience, the high priest. She saw all now, and saw, too, at the same instant, whither her line of duty led. The atmosphere was sultry, but she shivered; and if a mirror could have been held before her eyes, she would have started back from the gray, stony face so unlike hers. It seemed so strange that the heart of the accomplished misanthrope—the man of letters and science, who had ransacked the world for information and amusement—should surrender itself to the prattle of a pretty young thing, who could sympathize in no degree with his pursuits, and was as utterly incapable of understanding his nature as his Tartar horse or his pet bloodhound. She had often heard Mrs. Murray say, "If there is one thing more uncertain even than the verdict of a jury—if there is one thing which is known neither in heaven, earth, or hell, and which angels and demons alike waste time in guessing at—it is what style of woman any man will fancy and select for his wife. It is utterly impossible to predict what matrimonial caprice may or may not seize even the wisest, most experienced, most practical, and reasonable of men; and I would sooner undertake to conjecture how high the thermometer stands at this instant on the crest of Mount Copernicus up yonder in the moon, than attempt to guess what freak will decide a man's choice of a bride." Sternly Edna faced the future, and pictured Gertrude as Mr. Murray's wife; for if he loved her (and did not his eyes declare it?), of course he would sweep every objection, every obstacle to the winds, and marry her speedily. She tried to think of him—the cold, harsh scoffer—as the fond husband of that laughing child; and though the vision was indescribably painful, she forced herself to dwell upon it. The idea that he would ever love any one or anything had never until this hour occurred to her; and while she could neither tolerate his opinions or respect his character, she found herself smitten with a great, voiceless anguish at the thought of his giving his sinful bitter heart to any woman. "Why did she love him? Curious fool be still! Pressing her hand to her eyes she murmured: "Gertrude is right; he is fascinating, but it is the fascination of a tempting demon! Ah! if I had never come here, if I had never been cursed with the sight of his face! But I am no weak, silly child like Gertrude Powell; I know what my duty is, and I am strong enough to conquer, and if necessary to crush my foolish heart. Oh! I know you, Mr. Murray, and I can defy you. To-day, shortsighted as I have been, I look down on you. You are beneath me, and the time will come when I shall look back to this hour and wonder if I were temporarily bewitched or insane. Wake up! wake up! come to your senses, Edna Earl! Put an end to this sinful folly; blush for your unwomanly weakness!" As Gertrude's merry laugh floated up through the trees the orphan lifted her head, and the blood came back to her cheeks while she watched the two figures sauntering across, the smooth lawn. Gertrude leaned on Mr. Murray's arm, and as he talked to her his head was bent down, so that he could see the flushed face shaded by her straw hat. She drew her hand from his arm when they reached the greenhouse, and looking much embarrassed, said hurriedly: "I am afraid I have kept you waiting an unconscionable time; but Mr. Murray had so many beautiful things to show me that I quite forgot we had left you here alone." "I dare say your mother thinks I have run away with you; and as I have an engagement, I must either bid you good-bye and leave you here with Mr. Murray, or go back at once with you to the house." The orphan's voice was firm and quiet; and as she handed the French paper to St. Elmo, she turned her eyes full on his face. "Have you read it already?" he asked, giving her one of his steely, probing glances. "No, sir, I did not open it, as I take little interest in continental politics. Gertrude, will you go or stay?" Mr. Murray put out his hand, took Gertrude's, and said: "Good-bye till to-morrow. Do not forget your promise." Turning away, he went in the direction of the stables. In silence Edna walked on to the house, and presently Gertrude's soft fingers grasped hers. "Edna, I hope you are not mad with me. Do you really think it is wrong for me to talk to Mr. Murray, and to like him so much?" "Gertrude, you must judge for yourself concerning the propriety of your conduct. I shall not presume to advise you; but the fact that you are unwilling to acquaint your mother with your course ought to make you look closely at your own heart. When a girl is afraid to trust her mother, I should think there were grounds for uneasiness." They had reached the steps, and Mrs. Powell came out to meet them. "Where have you two runaways been? I have waited a half hour for you. Estelle, do come and see me. It is very dreary at the parsonage, and your visits are cheering and precious. Come, Gertrude." When Gertrude kissed her friend, she whispered: "Don't be mad with me, dearie. I will remember what you said, and talk to mamma this very evening." Edna saw mother and daughter descend the long avenue and then running up to her room, she tied on her hat and walked rapidly across the park in an opposite direction. About a mile and a half from Le Bocage, on a winding and unfrequented road leading to a sawmill, stood a small log-house containing only two rooms. The yard was neglected, full of rank weeds, and the gate was falling from its rusty hinges. Edna walked up the decaying steps, and without pausing to knock, entered one of the comfortless-looking rooms. On a cot in one corner lay an elderly man in the last stage of consumption, and by his side, busily engaged in knitting, sat a child about ten years old, whose pretty white face wore that touching look of patient placidity peculiar to the blind. Huldah Reed had never seen the light, but a marvellous change came over her countenance when Edna's light step and clear, sweet voice fell on her ear. "Huldah, how is your father to-day?" "Not as well as he was yesterday; but he is asleep now, and will be better when he wakes." "Has the doctor been here to-day?" "No, he has not been here since Sunday." Edna stood for a while watching the labored breathing of the sleeper, and, putting her hand on Huldah's head, she whispered: "Do you want me to read to you this evening? It is late, but I shall have time for a short chapter." "Oh! please do, if it is only a few lines. It will not wake him." The child rose, spread out her hands, and groped her way across the room to a small table, whence she took an old Bible. The two sat down together by the western window, and Edna asked: "Is there any particular chapter you would like to hear?" "Please read about blind Bartimeus sitting by the roadside, waiting for Edna turned to the verses and read in a subdued tone for some moments. In her eager interest Huldah slid down on her knees, rested her thin hands on her companion's lap and raised her sweet face, with its wide, vacant, sad, hazel eyes. When Edna read the twenty-fourth verse of the next chapter, the small hands were laid upon the page to arrest her attention. "Edna, do you believe that? 'What things soever you desire, when ye pray believe that ye receive them, AND YE SHALL HAVE THEM!' Jesus said that: and if I pray that my eyes may be opened, do you believe I shall see? They tell me that—that pa will not live. Oh! do you think if I pray day and night, and if I believe, and oh! I do believe, I will believe! do you think Jesus will let me see him—my father—before he dies? If I could only see his dear face once, I would be willing to be blind afterward. All my life I have felt his face, and I knew it by my fingers; but oh! I can't feel it in the grave! I have been praying so hard ever since the doctor said he must die; praying that Jesus would have mercy on me, and let me see him just once. Last night I dreamed Christ came and put his hands on my eyes, and said to me, too, 'Thy faith hath made thee whole'; and I waked up crying, and my own fingers were pulling my eyes open; but it was all dark, dark. Edna, won't you help me pray! And do you believe I shall see him?" Edna took the quivering face in her soft palms, and tenderly kissed the lips several times. "My dear Huldah, you know the days of miracles are over, and Jesus is not walking in the world now to cure the suffering and the blind and the dumb." "But he is sitting close to the throne of God, and he could send some angel down to touch my eyes, and let me see my dear, dear pa once—ah! just once. Oh! he is the same Jesus now as when he felt sorry for Bartimeus. And why won't He pity me, too? I pray and believe, and that is what He said I must do." "I think that the promise relates to spiritual things, and means that when we pray for strength to resist temptation and sin, Jesus sends the Holy Spirit to assist all who earnestly strive to do their duty. But, dear Huldah, one thing is very certain, even if you are blind in this world, there will come a day when God will open your eyes, and you shall see those you love, face to face; 'for there shall be no night there' in that city of rest—no need of sun or moon, for 'the Lamb is the light thereof.'" "Huldah—daughter!" The child glided swiftly to the cot, and, looking round, Edna doubted the evidence of her senses; for by the side of the sufferer stood a figure so like Mr. Murray that her heart began to throb painfully. The corner of the room was dim and shadowy, but a strong, deep voice soon dispelled all doubt. "I hope you are better to-day, Reed. Here are some grapes which will refresh you, and you can eat them as freely as your appetite prompts." Mr. Murray placed a luscious cluster in the emaciated hands, and put the basket down on the floor near the cot. As he drew a chair from the wall and seated himself, Edna crossed the room stealthily, and, laying her hand on Huldah's shoulder, led her out to the front steps. "Huldah, has Mr. Murray ever been here before?" "Oh! yes—often and often; but he generally comes later than this. He brings all the wine poor pa drinks, and very often peaches and grapes. Oh! he is so good to us. I love to hear him come up the steps; and many a time, when pa is asleep, I sit here at night, listening for the gallop of Mr. Murray's horse. Somehow I feel so safe, as if nothing could go wrong, when he is in the house." "Why did you never tell me this before? Why have you not spoken of him?" "Because he charged me not to speak to any one about it—said he did not choose to have it known that he ever came here. There! pa is calling me. Won't you come in and speak to him?" "Not this evening. Good-bye. I will come again soon." Edna stooped, kissed the child hastily, and walked away. She had only reached the gate, where Tamerlane was fastened, when Mr. "Edna!" Reluctantly she stopped and waited for him. "Are you not afraid to walk home alone?" "No, sir; I am out frequently even later than this." "It is not exactly prudent for you to go home now alone; for it will be quite dark before you can possibly reach the park gate." He passed his horse's reins over his arm, and led him along the road. "I am not going that way, sir. There is a path through the woods that is much shorter than the road and I can get through an opening in the orchard fence. Good evening." She turned abruptly from the beaten road, but he caught her dress and detained her. "I told you some time ago that I never permitted espionage in my affairs; and now with reference to what occurred at the greenhouse, I advise you to keep silent. Do you understand me?" "In the first place, sir, I could not condescend to play spy on the actions of any one; and in the second, you may rest assured I shall not trouble myself to comment upon your affairs, in which I certainly have no interest. Your estimate of me must be contemptible indeed, if you imagine that I can only employ myself in watching your career. Dismiss your apprehensions, and rest in the assurance that I consider it no business of mine where you go or what you may choose to do." "My only desire is to shield my pretty Gertrude's head from the wrath that may be bottled up for her." Edna looked up fixedly into the deep, glittering eyes that watched hers, and answered quietly: "Mr. Murray, if you love her half as well as I do, you will be more careful in the future not to subject her to the opening of the vials of wrath." He laughed contemptuously, and exclaimed: "You are doubtless experienced in such matters, and fully competent to advise me." "No, sir; it does not concern me, and I presume neither to criticise nor to advise. Please be so good as to detain me no longer, and believe me when I repeat that I have no intention whatever of meddling with any of your affairs, or reporting your actions." Putting his hands suddenly on her shoulders, he stooped, looked keenly at her, and she heard him mutter an oath. When he spoke again it was through set teeth: "You will be wise if you adhere to that decision. Tell them at home not to wait supper for me." He sprang into his saddle and rode toward the village; and Edna hurried homeward, asking herself: "What first took Mr. Murray to the blacksmith's hovel? Why is he so anxious that his visits should remain undiscovered? After all, is there some latent nobility in his character? Is he so much better or worse than I have thought him? Perhaps his love for Gertrude has softened his heart, perhaps that love may be his salvation. God grant it! God grant it!" The evening breeze rose and sang solemnly through the pine trees, but to her it seemed only to chant the melancholy refrain, "My pretty Gertrude, my pretty Gertrude." The chill light of stars fell on the orphan's pathway, and over her pale features, where dwelt the reflection of a loneliness—a silent desolation, such as she had never realized, even when her grandfather was snatched from her clinging arms. She passed through the orchard, startling a covey of partridges that nestled in the long grass, and a rabbit that had stolen out under cover of dusk; and when she came to the fountain, she paused and looked out over the dark, quiet grounds. Hitherto duty had worn a smiling, loving countenance, and walked gently by her side as she crossed the flowery vales of girlhood; now, the guide was transformed into an angel of wrath, pointing with drawn sword to the gate of Eden. As the girl's light fingers locked themselves tightly, her beautiful lips uttered mournfully: "What hast thou done, O soul of mine When Mrs. Murray went to her own room later than usual that night, she found Edna sitting by the table, with her Bible lying open on her lap, and her eyes fixed on the floor. "I thought you were fast asleep before this. I sat up waiting for St. The lady of the house threw herself wearily upon the lounge, and sighed as she unclasped her bracelets and took off the diamond cross that fastened her collar. "Edna, ring for Hagar." "Will you not let me take her place to-night? I want to talk to you before I go to sleep." "Well, then, unlace my gaiters and take down my hair. Child, what makes you look so very serious?" "Because what I am about to say saddens me very much. My dear Mrs. Murray, I have been in this house five peaceful, happy, blessed years; I have become warmly attached to everything about the home where I have been so kindly sheltered during my girlhood, and the thought of leaving it is exceedingly painful to me." "What do you mean, Edna? Have you come to your senses at last, and consented to make Gordon happy?" "No, no. I am going to New York to try to make my bread." "You are going to a lunatic asylum! Stuff! nonsense! What can you do in "I know that I am competent now to take a situation as teacher in a school, or family, and I am determined to make the experiment immediately. I want to go to New York because I can command advantages there which no poor girl can obtain in any Southern city; and the magazine for which I expect to write is published there. Mr. Manning says he will pay me liberally for such articles as he accepts, and if I can only get a situation which I hear is now vacant, I can easily support myself. Mrs. Powell received a letter yesterday from a wealthy friend in New York who desires to secure a governess for her young children, one of whom is deformed. She said she was excessively particular as to the character of the woman to whose care she committed her crippled boy, and that she had advertised for one who could teach him Greek. I shall ask Mrs. Powell and Mr. Hammond to telegraph to her to-morrow and request her not to engage any one till a letter can reach her from Mr. Hammond and myself. I believe he knows the lady, who is very distantly related to Mrs. Powell. Still, before I took this step, I felt that I owed it to you to acquaint you with my intention." "It is a step which I cannot sanction. I detest that Mrs. Powell—I utterly loathe the sound of her name, and I should be altogether unwilling to see you domesticated with any of her 'friends.' I am surprised that Mr. Hammond could encourage any such foolish scheme on your part." "As yet he is entirely ignorant of my plan, for I have mentioned it to no one except yourself; but I do not think he will oppose it. Dear Mrs. Murray, much as I love you, I cannot remain here any longer, for I could not continue to owe my bread even to your kind and tender charity. You have educated me, and only God knows how inexpressibly grateful I am for all your goodness; but now, I could no longer preserve my self-respect or be happy as a dependent on your bounty." She had taken Mrs. Murray's hand, and while tears gathered in her eyes, she kissed the fingers and pressed them against her cheek. "If you are too proud to remain here as you have done for so many years, how do you suppose you can endure the humiliations and affronts which will certainly be your portion when you accept a hireling's position in the family of a stranger? Don't you know that of all drudgery that required of governesses is most fraught with vexation and bitterness of spirit? I have never treated you as an upper servant, but loved you and shielded you from slights and insults as if you were my niece or my daughter. Edna, you could not endure the lot you have selected; your proud, sensitive nature would be galled to desperation. Stay here and help me keep house; write and study as much as you like, and do as you please; only don't leave me." She drew the girl to her bosom, and while she kissed her, tears fell on the pale face. "Oh, Mrs. Murray! it is hard to leave you! For indeed I love you more than you will ever believe or realize; but I must go! I feel it is my duty, and you would not wish me to stay here and be unhappy." "Unhappy here! Why so? Something is wrong, and I must know just what it is. Somebody has been meddling—taunting you. Edna, I ask a plain question, and I want the whole truth. You and Estelle do not like each other; is her presence here the cause of your determination to quit my house?" "No, Mrs. Murray; if she were not here I should still feel it my duty to go out and earn my living. You are correct in saying we do not particularly like each other; there is little sympathy between us, but no bad feeling that I am aware of, and she is not the cause of my departure." Mrs. Murray was silent a moment, scrutinizing the face on her shoulder. "Edna, can it be my son? Has some harsh speech of St. Elmo's piqued and wounded you?" "Oh! no. His manner toward me is quite as polite, nay, rather more considerate than when I first came here. Beside, you know, we are almost strangers; sometimes weeks elapse without our exchanging a word." "Are you sure you have not had a quarrel with him? I know you dislike him; I know how exceedingly provoking he frequently is; but, child, he is unfortunately constituted; he is bitterly rude to everybody, and does not mean to wound you particularly." "I have no complaint to make of Mr. Murray's manner to me. I do not expect or desire that it should be other than it is. Why do you doubt the sincerity of the reason I gave for quitting dear old Bocage? I have never expected to live here longer than was necessary to qualify myself for the work I have chosen." "I doubt it because it is so incomprehensible that a young girl, who might be Gordon Leigh's happy wife and mistress of his elegant home, surrounded by every luxury, and idolized by one of the noblest, handsomest men I ever knew, should prefer to go among strangers and toil for a scanty livelihood. Now I know something of human nature, and I know that your course is very singular, very unnatural. Edna, my child! My dear, little girl! I can't let you go. I want you! I can't spare you! I find I love you too well, my sweet comforter in all my troubles! My only real companion!" She clasped the orphan closer and wept. "Oh! you don't know how precious your love is to my heart, dear, dear Mrs. Murray! In all this wide world whom have I to love me but you and Mr. Hammond? Even in the great sorrow of leaving you, it will gladden me to feel that I possess so fully your confidence and affection. But I must go away; and after a little while you will not miss me; for Estelle will be with you, and you will not need me. Oh, it is hard to leave you! it is a bitter trial! But I know what my duty is; and were it even more difficult, I would not hesitate. I hope you will not think me unduly obstinate when I tell you, that I have fully determined to apply for that situation in New York." Mrs. Murray pushed the girl from her, and, with a sob, buried her face in her arms. Edna waited in vain for her to speak, and finally she stooped and kissed one of the hands, and said brokenly as she left the room: "Good-night—my dearest—my best friend. If you could only look into my heart and see how it aches at the thought of separation, you would not add the pain of your displeasure to that which I already suffer." When the orphan opened her eyes on the following morning, she found a note pinned to her pillow: "MY DEAR EDNA: I could not sleep last night in consequence of your unfortunate resolution, and I write to beg you, for my sake if not for your own, to reconsider the matter. I will gladly pay you the same salary that you expect to receive as governess, if you will remain as my companion and assist at Le Bocage. I cannot consent to give you up; I love you too well, my child, to see you quit my house. I shall soon be an old woman, and then what should I do without my little orphan girl? Stay with me always, and you shall never know what want and toil and hardship mean. As soon as you are awake, come and kiss me good-morning, and I shall know that you are my own dear, little Edna. "Affectionately yours, "ELLEN MURRAY." Edna knelt and prayed for strength to do what she felt duty sternly dictated; but, though her will did not falter her heart bled, as she wrote a few lines thanking her benefactress for the affection that had brightened and warmed her whole lonely life, and assuring her that the reasons which induced her to leave Le Bocage were imperative and unanswerable. An hour later she entered the breakfast-room, and found the members of the family already assembled. While Mrs. Murray was cold and haughty, taking no notice of Edna's salutation, Estelle talked gayly with Mr. Allston concerning a horseback ride they intended to take that morning; and Mr. Murray, leaning back in his chair, seemed engrossed in the columns of the London Times which contained a recent speech of Gladstone's. Presently he threw down the paper, looked at his watch and ordered his horse. "St. Elmo, where are you going? Do allow yourself to be prevailed upon to wait and ride with us." Estelle's tone was musical and coaxing as she approached her cousin and put one of her fingers through the button-hole of his coat. "Not for all the kingdoms that Satan pointed out from the pinnacle of Mount Quarantina! I have as insuperable an objection to constituting one of a trio as some superstitious people have to forming part of a dinner-party of thirteen. Where am I going? To that 'Sea of Serenity' which astronomers tell us is located in the left eye of the face known in common parlance as the man in the moon. Where am I going? To Western Ross-shire, to pitch my tent and smoke my cigar in peace, on the brink of that blessed Loch Maree, whereof Pennant wrote." He shook off Estelle's touch, walked to the mantel-piece, and, taking a match from the china case, drew it across the heel of his boot. "Where is Loch Maree? I do not remember ever to have seen the name," said Mrs. Murray, pushing aside her coffee-cup. "Oh! pardon me, mother, if I decline to undertake your geographical education. Ask that incipient Isotta Nogarole, sitting there at your right hand. Doubtless she will find it a pleasing task to instruct you in Scottish topography, while I have an engagement that forces me most reluctantly and respectfully to decline the honor of enlightening you. Confound these matches! they are all damp." Involuntarily Mrs. Murray's eyes turned to Edna, who had not even glanced at St. Elmo since her entrance. Now she looked up, and though she had not read Pennant, she remembered the lines written on the old Druidic well by an American poet. Yielding to some inexplicable impulse, she slowly and gently repeated two verses: "'Oh, restless heart and fevered brain! |
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