It was just beginning to be light when Edith opened her eyes, and lifting up her head, looked about the room to see if Lulu had been in to make her fire. She always awoke earlier on lesson day, so as to have a good long time TO THINK, and now as she counted the hours, one, two, three and a half, which must intervene before she saw Arthur St. Claire again, she hid her blushing face in the pillow, as if ashamed to let the gray daylight see just how happy she was. These lessons had become the most important incidents in her life, and this morning there was good cause why she should anticipate the interview. She believed Richard was not going, and though she was of course very sorry to leave him behind, she tried hard to be reconciled, succeeding so well that when at 8 o'clock she descended to the breakfast room, Victor asked what made her look so unusually bright and happy.

"I don't know," she replied, "unless it is because we are going to ride," and she glanced inquiringly at Richard, seating himself at the table.

Victor shrugged his shoulders. HE knew more than Edith thought he did, and waited like herself for Richard's answer. Richard HAD intended to remain at home, but it seemed that Edith expected him to go, by her saying WE, and rather than disappoint her he began to think seriously of martyring himself again. Something like this he said, adding that he found it vastly tedious, but was willing to endure it for Edith's sake.

"Pardonnez moi, Monsieur," said Victor, who for the sake of Edith, would sometimes stretch the truth, "I saw Mr. Floyd yesterday, and he is coming here this morning to talk with you about the west wood lot you offered for sale. Hadn't you better stay home for once and let Miss Edith go alone."

Edith gave a most grateful look t Victor, who had only substituted "this morning" for "some time to-day," the latter being what Mr. Floyd had really said.

"Perhaps I had," returned Richard. "I want so much to sell that lot, but if Edith—-"

"Never mind me, Mr. Harrington," she cried; "I have not been on Bedouin's back in so long a time that he is getting quite unmanageable, they say, and I shall be delighted to discipline him this morning; the roads are quite fine for winter, are they not Victor?"

"Never were better," returned the Frenchman; smooth and hard as a rock. "You'll enjoy it amazingly, I know. I'll tell Jake not to get out the carriage," and without waiting for an answer the politic victor left the room.

Richard had many misgivings as to the propriety of letting Edith go without him, and he was several times on the point of changing his mind, but Edith did not give him any chance, and at just a quarter before ten she came down equipped in her riding habit, and asking if he had any message for Mr. St. Claire.

"None in particular," he answered, adding that she might come back through the village and bring the mail.

Once on the back of Bedouin, who danced for a few moments like a playful kitten, Edith felt sure she was going alone, and abandoning herself to her delight she flew down the carriage road at a terrific speed, which startled even Victor, great as was his faith in his young lady's skill. But Edith had the utmost confidence in Bedouin, while Bedouin had the utmost confidence in Edith, and by the time they were out upon the main road they had come to a most amicable understanding.

"I mean to gallop round to the office now," thought Edith; "and then I shall not be obliged to hurry away from Grassy Spring."

Accordingly Bedouin was turned toward the village, and in an inconceivably short space of time she stood before the door of the post-office.

"Give me Mr. Harrington's mail, please," Edith said to the clerk who came out to meet her; "and—and Mr. St. Claire's too, I'm going up there, and can take it as well as not."

The clerk withdrew, and soon returned with papers for Richard, and a letter for Arthur. It was post-marked at Worcester, and Edith thought of Mr. Griswold, as she thrust it into her pocket, and started for Grassy Spring, where Arthur was anxiously awaiting her. Hastening out to meet her, he held her hand in his, while he led her up the walk, telling her by his manner, if by nothing else, how glad he was to see her.

"It has seemed an age since Tuesday," he said. "I only live on lesson-days. I wish it was lesson-day always."

"So do I," said Edith, impulsively, repenting her words the moment she met the peculiar glance of Arthur's eyes.

She was beginning to be afraid of him, and half wished Richard was there. Remembering his letter at last, she gave it to him, explaining how she came by it, and marvelling at the sudden whiteness of his face.

"I will wait till she is gone," he thought, as he recognized Dr. Griswold's writing, and knew well what it was about. "I won't let anything mar the bliss of the next two hours," and he laid it upon the table.

"Ain't you going to read it?" asked Edith, as earnestly as if she knew the contents of that letter would save her from much future pain. "Read it," she persisted, declaring, with pretty willfulness that she would not touch a pencil until he complied with her request.

"I suppose I must yield then," he said, withdrawing into the adjoining room, where he broke the seal and read—once—twice— three times—lingering longest over the sentences which we subjoin.

* * * "To-day, for the first time since you were here, our poor little girl spoke of you of her own accord, asking where you were and why you left her so long alone. I really think it would be better for you to take her home. She is generally quiet with you, and latterly she has a fancy that you are threatened with some danger, for she keeps whispering to herself, 'Keep Arthur from temptation. Keep him from temptation, and don't let any harm come to little MIGGIE.' Who is Miggie? I don't think I ever heard her name until within the last few days." * * *

And this it was which kept Arthur St. Claire from falling. Slowly the tears, such as strong men only shed, gathered in his eyes and dropped upon the paper. Then his pale lips moved, and he whispered sadly, "Heaven bless you, NINA, poor unfortunate Nina. Your prayer SHALL save me, and henceforth Edith shall be to me just what your darling Miggie would have been were she living. God help me to do right," he murmured, as he thought of Edith Hastings, and remembered how weak he was. That prayer of anguish was not breathed in vain, and when the words were uttered he felt himself growing strong again—strong to withstand the charms of the young girl waiting impatiently for him in the adjoining room.

There were many things she meant to say to him in Richard's absence. She would ask him about NINA, and the baby picture which had so interested her. It had disappeared from the drawing room and as yet she had found no good opportunity to question him about it, but she would do so to-day. She would begin at once so as not to forget, and she was just wondering how long it took a man to read a letter, when he came in. She saw at a glance that something had affected him, and knowing intuitively that it was not the time for idle questionings, she refrained from all remark, and the lesson both had so much anticipated, proceeded in almost unbroken silence. It was very dull indeed, she thought, not half so nice as when Richard was there, and in her pet at Arthur's coolness and silence, she made so many blunders that at last throwing pencil and paper across the room, she declared herself too stupid for any thing.

"You, too, are out of humor," she said, looking archly into Arthur's face, "and I won't stay here any longer. I mean to go away and talk with Judy about Abel."

So saying, she ran off to the kitchen where she was now a great favorite, and sitting down at Judy's feet, began to ask her of Florida and Sunnybank, her former home.

"Tell me more of the magnolias," she said, "It almost seems to me as if I had seen those beautiful white blossoms and that old house with its wide hall."

"Whar was you raised?" asked Judy, and Edith replied,

"I told you once, in New York, but I have such queer fancies, as if I had lived before I came into this world."

"Jest the way Miss Nina used to go on, muttered the old woman, looking steadily into the fire.

"Nina!" and Edith started quickly. "DID you know Nina, Aunt Judy? Do you know her now? Where is she? Who is she, and that black-eyed baby in the frame? Tell me all about them."

"All about what?" I asked Phillis, suddenly appearing and casting a warning glance at her mother, who replied, "'Bout marster's last wife, the one you say she done favors." Then, in an aside to Edith, she added, "I kin pull de wool over her eyes. Bimeby mabby I'll done tell you how that ar is de likeness of Miss Nina's half sister what is dead, and 'bout Miss Nina, too, the sweetest, most misfortinest human de Lord ever bornd."

"She isn't a great ways from here, is she?" whispered Edith, as Phillis bustled into the pantry, hurrying back ere Judy could more than shake her head significantly.

"Dear Aunt Phillis, won't you please tell Ike to bring up Bedouin," Edith said coaxingly, hoping by this ruse to get rid of the old negress; but Phillis was too cunning, and throwing up the window sash, she called to Ike, delivering the message.

Edith, however, managed slily to whisper, "In Worcester, isn't she?" while Judy as slily nodded affirmatively, ere Phillis' sharp eyes were turned again upon them. Edith's curiosity concerning the mysterious Nina was thoroughly roused, and determining to ferret out the whole affair by dint of quizzing Judith whenever an opportunity should occur, she took her leave.

"Mother," said Phillis, the moment Edith was out of hearing, "havn't you no sense, or what possessed you to talk of Miss Nina to her? Havn't you no family pride, and has you done forgot that Marster Arthur forbade our talkin' of her to strangers?"

Old Judy at first received the rebuke in silence, then bridling up in her own defense, she replied, "Needn't tell me that any good will ever come out o' this kiverin' up an' hidin', and keeping whist. It'll come out bimeby, an' then folks'll wonder what 'twas all did for. Ole marster didn't act so by Miss Nina's mother, an' I believe thar's somethin' behind, some carrying on that we don't know; but it's boun' to come out fust or last. That ar Miss Edith is a nice trim gal. I wish to goodness Marster Arthur'd done set to her. I'd like her for a mistress mighty well. I really b'lieve he has a hankerin' notion after her, too, an' it's nater that he should have. It's better for the young to marry, and the old, too, for that matter. Poor Uncle Abe! Do you s'pose, Phillis, that he goes over o' nights to Aunt Dilsey's cabin sen' we've come away. Dilsey's an onery nigger, anyhow," and with her mind upon Uncle Abel, and her possible rival Dilsey, old Judy forgot Edith Hastings, who, without bidding Arthur good morning, had gallopped home to Collingwood, where she found poor, deluded Richard, waiting and wondering at the non-appearance of Mr. Floyd, who was to buy his western wood lot.