Immediately after her return to New York, Edna resumed her studies with renewed energy, and found her physical strength recruited and her mind invigorated by repose. Her fondness for Hattie induced her to remain with Mrs. Andrews in the capacity of governess, though her position in the family had long ceased to resemble in any respect that of a hireling. Three hours of each day were devoted to the education of the little girl, who, though vastly inferior in mental endowments to her brother, was an engaging and exceedingly affectionate child, fully worthy of the love which her gifted governess lavished upon her. The remainder of her time Edna divided between study, music, and an extensive correspondence, which daily increased.

She visited little, having no leisure and less inclination to fritter away her morning in gossip and chit-chat; but she set apart one evening in each week for the reception of her numerous kind friends, and of all strangers who desired to call upon her. These reunions were brilliant and delightful, and it was considered a privilege to be present at gatherings where eminent men and graceful, refined, cultivated Christian women assembled to discuss ethical and aesthetic topics, which all educated Americans are deemed capable of comprehending.

Edna's abhorrence of double entendre and of the fashionable sans souci style of conversation, which was tolerated by many who really disliked but had not nerve enough to frown it down, was not a secret to any one who read her writings or attended her receptions. Without obtruding her rigid views of true womanly delicacy and decorum upon any one, her deportment under all circumstances silently published her opinion of certain latitudinarian expressions prevalent in society.

She saw that the growing tendency to free and easy manners and colloquial license was rapidly destroying all reverence for womanhood; was levelling the distinction between ladies' parlors and gentlemen's clubrooms; was placing the sexes on a platform of equality which was dangerous to feminine delicacy, that God-built bulwark of feminine purity and of national morality.

That time-honored maxim, "Honi soit qui mal y pense," she found had been distorted from its original and noble significance, and was now a mere convenient India-rubber cloak, stretched at will to cover and excuse allusions which no really modest woman could tolerate. Consequently, when she heard it flippantly pronounced in palliation of some gross offense against delicacy, she looked more searchingly into the characters of the indiscreet talkers, and quietly intimated to them that their presence was not desired at her receptions. Believing that modesty and purity were twin sisters, and that vulgarity and vice were rarely if ever divorced, Edna sternly refused to associate with those whose laxity of manners indexed, in her estimation, a corresponding laxity of morals. Married belles and married beaux she shunned and detested, regarding them as a disgrace to their families, as a blot upon all noble womanhood and manhood, and as the most dangerous foes to the morality of the community, in which they unblushingly violated hearthstone statutes and the venerable maxims of social decorum.

The ostracized banded in wrath, and ridiculed her antiquated prudery; but knowing that the pure and noble mothers, wives, and daughters, honored and trusted her, Edna gave no heed to raillery and envious malice, but resolutely obeyed the promptings of her womanly intuitions.

Painful experience had taught her the imprudence, the short-sighted policy of working until very late at night; and in order to take due care of her health, she wisely resorted to a different system of study, which gave her more sleep, and allowed her some hours of daylight for her literary labors.

In the industrial pursuits of her own sex she was intensely interested, and spared no trouble in acquainting herself with the statistics of those branches of employment already open to them; consequently she was never so happy as when the recipient of letters from the poor women of the land, who thanked her for the words of hope, advice, and encouragement which she constantly addressed to them.

While the world honored her, she had the precious assurance that her Christian countrymen loved and trusted her. She felt the painful need of Mr. Manning's society, and even his frequent letters did not fully satisfy her; but as he had resolved to remain in Europe, at least for some years, she bore the irreparable loss of his counsel and sympathy, as she bore all other privations, bravely and quietly.

Now and then alarming symptoms of the old suffering warned her of the uncertainty of her life; and after much deliberation, feeling that her time was limited, she commenced another book.

Mr. Hammond wrote begging her to come to him, as he was now hopelessly infirm and confined to his room; but she shrank from a return to the village so intimately associated with events which she wished if possible to forget; and, though she declined the invitation, she proved her affection for her venerable teacher, by sending him every day a long, cheerful letter.

Since her departure from the parsonage, Mrs. Murray had never written to her; but through Mr. Hammond's and Huldah's letters, Edna learned that Mr. Murray was the officiating minister in the church which he had built in his boyhood; and now and then the old pastor painted pictures of life at Le Bocage, that brought happy tears to the orphan's eyes. She heard from time to time of the good the new minister was accomplishing among the poor; of the beneficial influence he exerted, especially over the young men of the community; of the charitable institutions to which he was devoting a large portion of his fortune; of the love and respect, the golden opinions he was winning from those whom he had formerly estranged by his sarcastic bitterness.

While Edna fervently thanked God for this most wonderful change, she sometimes repeated exultingly:

"Man-like is it to fall into sin,
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein,
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve,
God-like is it all sin to leave!"

One darling rose-hued dream of her life was to establish a free-school and circulating library in the village of Chattanooga; and keeping this hope ever in view, she had denied herself all superfluous luxuries, and jealously hoarded her savings.

She felt now that, should she become an invalid, and incapable of writing or teaching, the money made by her books, which Mr. Andrews had invested very judiciously, would at least supply her with the necessities of life.

One evening she held her weekly reception as usual, though she had complained of not feeling quite well that day.

A number of carriages stood before Mrs. Andrews's door and many friends who laughed and talked to the governess little dreamed that it was the last time they would spend an evening together in her society. The pleasant hours passed swiftly; Edna had never conversed more brilliantly, and the auditors thought her voice was richer and sweeter than ever, as she sang the last song and rose from the piano.

The guests took their departure—the carriages rolled away.

Mrs. Andrews ran up to her room, and Edna paused in the brilliantly lighted parlors to read a note, which had been handed to her during the evening.

Standing under the blazing chandelier, the face and figure of this woman could not fail to excite interest in all who gazed upon her.

She was dressed in plain black silk, which exactly fitted her form, and in her hair glowed clusters of scarlet geranium flowers. A spray of red fuchsia was fastened by the beautiful stone cameo that confined her lace collar; and, save the handsome gold bands on her wrists, she wore no other ornaments.

Felix had given her these bracelets as a Christmas present, and after his death she never took them off; for inside he had his name and hers engraved, and between them the word "Mizpah."

To-night the governess was very weary, and the fair sweet face wore its old childish expression of mingled hopelessness, and perfect patience, and indescribable repose. As she read, the tired look passed away, and over her pallid features, so daintily sculptured, stole a faint glow, such as an ivory Niobe might borrow from the fluttering crimson folds of silken shroudings. The peaceful lips stirred also and the low tone was full of pathos as she said:

"How very grateful I ought to be. How much I have to make me happy, to encourage me to work diligently and faithfully. How comforting it is to feel that parents have sufficient confidence in me to be willing to commit their children to my care. What more can I wish? My cup is brimmed with blessings. Ah! why am I not entirely happy?"

The note contained the signature of six wealthy gentlemen, who requested her acceptance of a tasteful and handsome house, on condition that she would consent to undertake the education of their daughters, and permit them to pay her a liberal salary.

It was a flattering tribute to the clearness of her intellect, the soundness of her judgment, the extent of her acquirements, and the purity of her heart.

While she could not accede to the proposition, she appreciated most gratefully the generosity and good opinion of those who made it.

Twisting the note between her fingers, her eyes fell on the carpet, and she thought of all her past; of the sorrows, struggles, and heart-aches, the sleepless nights and weary, joyless days—first of adverse, then of favorable criticism; of toiling, hoping, dreading, praying; and now, in the peaceful zenith of her triumph, popularity, and usefulness, she realized

"That care and trial seem at last,
Through Memory's sunset air,
Like mountain ranges overpast,
In purple distance fair."

The note fluttered to the floor, the hands folded themselves together, and she raised her eyes to utter an humble, fervent "Thank God!" But the words froze on her lips; for as she looked up, she saw Mr. Murray standing a few feet from her.

"God has pardoned all my sins, and accepted me as a laborer worthy to enter His vineyard. Is Edna Earl more righteous than the Lord she worships?"

His face was almost as pale as hers, and his voice trembled as he extended his arms toward her.

She stood motionless, looking up at him with eyes that brightened until their joyful radiance seemed indeed unearthly; and the faint, delicate blush on her cheeks deepened and burned, as with a quivering cry of gladness that told volumes, she hid her face in her hands.

He came nearer, and the sound of his low, mellow voice thrilled her heart as no other music had ever done.

"Edna, have you a right to refuse me forgiveness, when the blood of
Christ has purified me from the guilt of other years?"

She trembled and said brokenly:

"Mr. Murray—you never wronged me—and I have nothing to forgive."

"Do you still believe me an unprincipled hypocrite?"

"Oh! no, no, no!"

"Do you believe that my repentance has been sincere, and acceptable to my insulted God? Do you believe that I am now as faithfully endeavoring to serve Him, as a remorseful man possibly can?"

"I hope so, Mr. Murray."

"Edna, can you trust me now?"

Some seconds elapsed before she answered, and then the words were scarcely audible.

"I trust you."

"Thank God!"

There was a brief pause, and she heard a heavily-drawn sigh escape him.

"Edna, it is useless to tell you how devotedly I love you, for you have known that for years; and yet you have shown my love no mercy. But perhaps if you could realize how much I need your help in my holy work, how much more good I could accomplish in the world if you were with me, you might listen, without steeling yourself against me, as you have so long done. Can you, will you trust me fully? Can you be a minister's wife, and aid him as only you can? Oh, my darling, my darling! I never expect to be worthy of you! But you can make me less unworthy! My own darling, come to me."

He stood within two feet of her, but he was—too humble? Nay, nay, too proud to touch her without permission.

Her hands fell from her crimson cheeks, and she looked up at the countenance of her king.

In her fond eyes he seemed noble and sanctified, and worthy of all confidence; and as he opened his arms once more, she glided into them and laid her head on his shoulder, whispering:

"Oh! I trust you! I trust you fully!"

Standing in the close, tender clasp of his strong arms, she listened to a narration of his grief and loneliness, his hopes and fears, his desolation and struggles and prayers during their long separation. Then for the first time she learned that he had come more than once to New York, solely to see her, having exacted a promise from Mr. Manning that he would not betray his presence in the city. He had followed her at a distance as she wandered with the children through the Park; and, once in the ramble, stood so close to her that he put out his hand and touched her dress. Mr. Manning had acquainted him with all that had ever passed between them on the subject of his unsuccessful suit; and during her sojourn in Europe, had kept him regularly advised of the state of her health.

At last, when Mr. Murray bent his head to press his lips again to hers, he exclaimed in the old, pleading tone that had haunted her memory for years:

"Edna, with all your meekness you are wilfully proud. You tell me you trust me, and you nestle your dear head here on my shoulder—why won't you say what you know so well I am longing, hungering to hear? Why won't you say, 'St. Elmo, I love you'?"

The glowing face was only pressed closer.

"My little darling!"

"Oh, Mr. Murray! could I be here."

"Well, my stately Miss Earl! I am waiting most respectfully to allow you an opportunity of expressing yourself."

No answer.

He laughed as she had heard him once before, when he took her in his arms and dared her to look into his eyes.

"When I heard your books extolled; when I heard your praises from men, women, and children; when I could scarcely pick up a paper without finding some mention of your name; when I came here to-night, and paced the pavement, waiting for your admirers to leave the house; whenever and wherever I have heard your dear name uttered, I have been exultingly proud! For I knew that the heart of the people's pet was mine! I gloried in the consciousness which alone strengthened and comforted me, that, despite all that the public could offer you, despite the adulation of other men, and despite my utter unworthiness, my own darling was true to me! that you never loved any one but S. Elmo Murray! And as God reigns above us, His happy world holds no man so grateful, so happy, so proud as I am! No man so resolved to prove himself worthy of his treasure! Edna, looking back across the dark years that have gone so heavily over my head, and comparing you, my pure, precious darling, with that woman, whom in my boyhood I selected for my life-companion, I know not whether I am most humble, or grateful, or proud!

'Ah I who am I, that God hath saved
Me from the doom I did desire,
And crossed the lot myself had craved
To set me higher?
What have I done that he should bow
From heaven to choose a wife for me?
And what deserved, he should endow
My home with THEE?'"

* * * * * * *

As Mr. Hammond was not able to take the fatiguing journey North, and Edna would not permit any one else to perform her marriage ceremony, she sent Mr. Murray home without her, promising to come to the parsonage as early as possible.

Mr. and Mrs. Andrews were deeply pained by the intelligence of her approaching departure, and finally consented to accompany her on her journey.

The last day of the orphan's sojourn in New York was spent at the quiet spot where Felix slept his last sleep; and it caused her keen grief to bid good-bye to his resting-place, which was almost as dear to her as the grave of her grandfather. Their affection had been so warm, so sacred, that she clung fondly to his memory; and it was not until she reached the old village depot, where carriages were waiting for the party, that the shadow of that day entirely left her countenance.

In accordance with her own request, Edna did not see Mr. Murray again until the hour appointed for their marriage.

It was a bright, beautiful afternoon, warm with sunshine, when she permitted Mrs. Murray to lead her into the study where the party had assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, Hattie, Huldah, and the white-haired pastor, were all there, and when Edna entered, Mr. Murray advanced to meet her, and received her hand from his mother.

The orphan's eyes were bent to the floor, and never once lifted, even when the trembling voice of her beloved pastor pronounced her St. Elmo Murray's wife. The intense pallor of her face frightened Mrs. Andrews, who watched her with suspended breath, and once moved eagerly toward her. Mr. Murray felt her lean more heavily against him during the ceremony; and, now turning to take her in his arms, he saw that her eyelashes had fallen on her cheeks—she had lost all consciousness of what was passing.

Two hours elapsed before she recovered fully from the attack; and when the blood showed itself again in lips that were kissed so repeatedly, Mr. Murray lifted her from the sofa in the study, and passing his arm around her, said:

"To-day I snap the fetters of your literary bondage. There shall be no more books written! No more study, no more toil, no more anxiety, no more heartaches! And that dear public you love so well, must even help itself, and whistle for a new pet. You belong solely to me now, and I shall take care of the life you have nearly destroyed in your inordinate ambition. Come, the fresh air will revive you."

They stood a moment under the honeysuckle arch over the parsonage gate, where the carriage was waiting to take them to Le Bocage, and Mr. Murray asked:

"Are you strong enough to go to the church?"

"Yes, sir; the pain has all passed away. I am perfectly well again."

They crossed the street, and he took her in his arms and carried her up the steps, and into the grand, solemn church, where the soft, holy, violet light from the richly-tinted glass streamed over gilded organ-pipes and sculptured columns.

Neither Edna nor St. Elmo spoke as they walked down the aisle; and in perfect silence both knelt before the shining altar, and only God heard their prayers of gratitude.

After some moments Mr. Murray put out his hand, took Edna's, and holding it in his on the balustrade, he prayed aloud, asking God's blessing on their marriage, and fervently dedicating all their future to His work.

The hectic flush of the dying day was reflected on the window high above the altar, and, burning through the red mantle of the Christ, fell down upon the marble shrine like sacred, sacrificial fire.

Edna felt as if her heart could not hold all its measureless joy. It seemed a delightful dream to see Mr. Murray kneeling at her side; to hear his voice earnestly consecrating their lives to the service of Jesus Christ.

She knew from the tremor in his tone, and the tears in his eyes, that his dedication was complete; and now to be his companion through all the remaining years of their earthly pilgrimage, to be allowed to help him and love him, to walk heavenward with her hand in his; this—this was the crowning glory and richest blessing of her life.

When his prayer ended, she laid her head down on the altar-railing, and sobbed like a child.

In the orange glow of a wintry sunset they came out and sat down on the steps, while a pair of spotless white pigeons perched on the blood-stain; and Mr. Murray put his arm around Edna, and drew her face to his bosom.

"Darling, do you remember that once, in the dark days of my reckless sinfulness, I asked you one night, in the library at Le Bocage, if you had no faith in me? And you repeated so vehemently, 'None, Mr. Murray!'"

"Oh, sir! do not think of it. Why recur to what is so painful and so long past? Forgive those words and forget them! Never was more implicit faith, more devoted affection, given to any human being than I give now to you, Mr. Murray; you, who are my first and my last and my only love."

She felt his arm tighten around her waist, as he bowed his face to hers.

"Forgive? Ah, my darling! do you recollect also that I told you then that the time would come when your dear lips would ask pardon for what they uttered that night, and that when that hour arrived I would take my revenge? My wife! my pure, noble, beautiful wife! give me my revenge, for I cry with the long-banished Roman:

'Oh! a kiss—long as my exile
Sweet as my revenge!'"

He put his hand under her chin, drew the lips to his, and kissed them repeatedly.

Down among the graves, in the brown grass and withered leaves, behind a tall shaft, around which coiled a carved marble serpent with hooded head-there, amid the dead, crouched a woman's figure, with a stony face and blue chatoyant eyes, that glared with murderous hate at the sweet countenance of the happy bride. When St. Elmo tenderly kissed the pure lips of his wife, Agnes Powell smothered a savage cry, and Nemesis was satisfied as the wretched woman fell forward on the grass, sweeping her yellow hair over her eyes, to shut out the vision that maddened her.

Then and there, for the first time, as she sat enfolded by her husband's arm, Edna felt that she could thank him for the monument erected over her grandfather's grave.

The light faded slowly in the west, the pigeons ceased their fluttering about the belfry, and as he turned to quit the church, so dear to both, Mr. Murray stretched his hand toward the ivy-clad vault, and said solemnly:

"I throw all mournful years behind me; and, by the grace of God, our new lives, commencing this hallowed day, shall make noble amends for the wasted past. Loving each other, aiding each other, serving Christ, through whose atonement alone I have been saved from eternal ruin. To Thy merciful guidance, O Father! we commit our future."

Edna looked reverently up at his beaming countenance, whence the shadows of hate and scorn had long since passed; and, as his splendid eyes came back to hers, reading in her beautiful, pure face all her love and confidence and happy hope, he drew her closer to his bosom, and laid his dark cheek on hers, saying fondly and proudly:

"My wife, my life. Oh! we will walk this world,
Yoked in all exercise of noble end,
And so through those dark gates across the wild
That no man knows. My hopes and thine are one;
Accomplish thou my manhood, and thyself,
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me."

THE END.

*****

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