"And now, love," the eager wooer continued, as he dropped the hand he had been holding and drew the happy girl into his arms, "you will give yourself to me—you will give me the right to stand between you and all future care or trouble?"

"Then you do not mind what I have just told you?" questioned Edith, timidly.

"Not in the least, only so far as it occasions you unhappiness or anxiety," unhesitatingly replied the young man. "You are unscathed by it—the sin and the shame belong alone to the man who ruined the life of your mother. You are my pearl, my fair lily, unspotted by any blight, and I should be unworthy of you, indeed, did I allow what you have told me to prejudice me in the slightest degree. Now tell me, Edith, that henceforth there shall be no barrier between us—tell me that you love me."

"How can I help it?" she murmured, as with a flood of ineffable joy sweeping into her soul she dropped her bright head upon his breast and yielded to his embrace.

"And will you be my wife?"

"Oh, if it is possible—if I can be," she faltered. "Are you sure that I am not already bound?"

"Leave all that to me—do not fret, even for one second, over it," her lover tenderly returned. Then he added, more lightly: "I am so sure, sweetheart, that to-morrow I shall bring you a letter which will proclaim to all whom it may concern, that henceforth you belong to me."

He lifted her face when he ceased speaking, and pressed his first caress upon her lips.

A little later he inquired:

"And have you no clue to the name of your parents?"

"No; all the clue that I have is simply the name of 'Belle' that was signed to the letters of which I have told you," Edith replied, with a regretful sigh.

"It is perhaps just as well, dear, after all," said her lover, cheerfully; "if you knew more, and should ever chance to meet the man who so wronged your mother, it might cause you a great deal of unhappiness."

"I have not a regret on his account," said Edith, bitterly; "but I would like to know something about my mother's early history and her friends. I have only sympathy and love in my heart for her, in spite of the fact that she erred greatly in leaving her home as she did, and, worse than all, in taking her own life."

"Poor little woman!" said Royal Bryant, with gentle sympathy; "despair must have turned her brain—she was more sinned against than sinning. But girls do not realize what a terrible mistake they are making when they allow men to persuade them to elope, leave their homes and best friends, and submit to a secret marriage. No man of honor would ever make such proposals to any woman—no man is worthy of any pure girl's love who will ask such a sacrifice on her part; and, in nine cases out of ten, I believe nothing but misery results from such a step."

"As in the case of poor Giulia Fiorini," remarked Edith, sadly. "But maybe she will be somewhat comforted when she discovers that she is Emil Correlli's legal wife."

"I fear that such knowledge will be but small satisfaction to her," her companion responded, "for if she should take measures to compel him to recognize the tie, he would doubtless rebel against the decision of the court; and, if she still loves him as you have represented, he would make her very wretched. However, he can be forced to make generous settlements, which will enable her to live comfortably and educate her child."

"And he will be entitled to his father's name, will he not?" inquired Edith, eagerly; "that would comfort her more than anything else."

"Yes, if he has ever acknowledged her as his wife, or allowed it to be assumed that she was, the child is entitled to the name," returned her lover. Then, as the carriage stopped, he added: "But here we are, my darling and I am sure you must be very weary after your long journey."

"Yes, I am tired, but very, very happy," the fair girl replied, looking up into his face with a sigh of content.

He smiled fondly upon her as he led her up the steps of a modest but pretty house, between the draperies at the windows of which there streamed a cheerful light.

"Well, we will soon have you settled in a cozy room where you can rest to your heart's content," he remarked, and at the same time touching the electric button by his side.

"Really, Mr. Bryant, I cannot help feeling guilty to intrude upon an entire stranger at this time of night," Edith observed, in a troubled tone.

"You need not, dear, for I assure you Nellie will be delighted; but"—bending over her with a roguish laugh—"Mr. Bryant does not enjoy being addressed with so much formality by his fiancee. The name I love best—Roy—my mother gave me when I was a boy, and I want always to hear it from your lips after this."

A servant admitted them just at that moment, and upon responding to Mr. Bryant's inquiry, said that Mrs. Morrell was at home, and ushered them at once to her pretty parlor.

Presently the young hostess—a lady of perhaps twenty-five years—made her appearance and greeted her cousin With great cordiality.

"You know I am always glad to see you, Roy," she said, giving him both her hands and putting up her red lips for a cousinly kiss.

"I know you always make a fellow feel very welcome," said the young man, smiling. "And, Nellie, this is Miss Edith Allandale; she has just arrived from Boston, and I am going to ask you to receive her as your guest for a few days," he concluded, thus introducing Edith.

Mrs. Morrell turned smilingly to the beautiful girl.

"Miss Allandale is doubly welcome, for her own sake, as well as yours," was her gracious response, as she clasped Edith's hand, and if she experienced any surprise at thus having an utter stranger thrust upon her hospitality at that hour, she betrayed none, but proceeded at once to help her remove her hat and wraps.

Tears sprang to the eyes of the homeless girl at this cordial reception, and her lips quivered with repressed emotion as she thanked the gentle lady for it.

"What was that Roy was saying—that you have come from Boston this afternoon?" queried Mrs. Morrell, hastening to cover her embarrassment by changing the subject. "Then you must be nearly famished, and you must have a lunch before you go to rest."

"Pray, do not trouble yourself—" Edith began.

"Please let me—I like such 'trouble,' as you are pleased to term it," smilingly interposed the pretty hostess; and with a bright nod and a hurried "excuse me," she was gone before Edith could make further objections.

"Nellie is the most hospitable little woman in the universe," Mr. Bryant remarked, as the door closed after her; "she is never so happy as when she is feeding the hungry or making somebody comfortable."

Fifteen minutes later she reappeared, a lovely flush on her round cheeks, her eyes bright with the pleasure she experienced in doing a kind act for the young stranger, toward whom she had been instantly attracted.

"Come, now," she said, holding out a hand to her, "and I know Roy will join us—he never yet refused a cup of tea of my own brewing."

"You are right, Nellie," smilingly replied that gentleman; "and I believe I am hungry, in spite of my hearty dinner at six o'clock. A ride over the pavements of New York will prepare almost any one for an extra meal. I only hope you have a slice of Aunt Janes's old-fashioned gingerbread for me."

Mrs. Morrell laughed out musically at this last remark.

"I never dare to be without it," she retorted, "for you never fail to ask for it. This cousin of mine, Miss Allandale, is always hungry when he comes to see me, and is never satisfied to go away without his slice of gingerbread. Perhaps," she added, shooting a roguish glance from one face to the other, for she had been quick to fathom their relations, "you will some time like to have mamma's recipe for it."

A conscious flush mantled Edith's cheek at this playful thrust, while the young lawyer gave vent to a hearty laugh of amusement in which a certain joyous ring betrayed to the shrewd little woman that she had not fired her shot amiss.

Then she led them into her home-like dining-room, where a table was laid for three, and where, over a generous supply of cold chicken, delicious bread and butter, home-made preserves, and the much lauded gingerbread, the trio spent a social half-hour, and Edith felt a sense of rest and content such as she had not experienced since leaving her Fifth avenue home, more than two years previous.

As soon as the meal was finished, Mrs. Morrell, who saw how weary and heavy-eyed the fair girl appeared, remarked to her cousin, with a pretty air of authority, that she was "going to carry her guest off upstairs to bed immediately."

"You stay here until I come back, Roy," she added. "Charlie was obliged to go out upon important business, and I shall be glad of your company for a while."

"Very well, Nellie! I will stay for a little chat, for I have something important which I wish to say to you."

As he concluded he darted a smiling glance at Edith, which again brought the lovely color to her cheeks and revealed to her the nature of the important communication that he intended to make to his cousin.

She bade him a smiling good-night, and then gladly accompanied her hostess above, for she was really more weary than she had acknowledged.

When Mrs. Morrell returned to the parlor, Roy related to her something of Edith's history, and also confessed his own relationship toward her, while the little woman listened with an absorbed attention which betrayed how thoroughly she enjoyed the romance of the affair.

"She is lovely!" she remarked, "and"—with a thoughtful air—"it seems to me as if I have heard the name before. Edith Allandale!—it sounds very familiar to me. Why, Roy! she was one of Sister Blanche's classmates at Vassar, and she has her picture in her class album!"

"That is a singular coincidence!" the young man observed, no less surprised at this revelation, "and it makes matters all the more pleasant for me to learn that she is not wholly unknown to the family."

"And you mean to marry her very soon?" inquired his cousin.

"Just as soon as I can settle matters with that rascal in Boston to her satisfaction," responded the young man, with a gleam of fire in his eyes. "I do not apprehend any serious trouble about the affair; still, it may take longer than I wish."

"And may I keep her until then?" eagerly inquired Mrs. Morrell.

"Nellie! that is like your kind, generous heart!" exclaimed the young man, gratefully; "and I thank you from the bottom of mine. But, of course, that will have to be as Edith herself decides, while this business which I have in charge for her may interfere with such an arrangement."

"Oh, you mean in connection with the strange gentleman who has been searching for her."

"Yes. But I must go now; it is getting late, and I have a couple of letters to write yet. Take good care of my treasure, Nellie, and I will run in as early to-morrow as possible to see you both."

He kissed her affectionately, then bade her good-night and hurried away to his rooms at his club; while pretty Mrs. Morrell went back to her parlor, after letting him out, to await her husband's return, and to think over the romantic story to which she had just listened with deep interest.

There had been so much of a personal and tender nature to occupy their minds that Mr. Bryant had not thought to tell Edith anything about the circumstances that had led him to advertise in various papers for intelligence of her.

Some three weeks previous, a gentleman, of about fifty years, and calling himself Louis Raymond, had presented himself in his office, and inquired if he could give him any information regarding the late Albert Allandale's family.

He stated that he had spent most of his life abroad, but, his health beginning to fail, he had decided to return to his own country.

He had been quite ill since his arrival, and he began to fear that he had not long to live, and it behooved him to settle his affairs without further delay.

He stated that he had no relatives or family—he had never married; but, being possessed of large wealth, he wished to settle half of it upon Mrs. Allandale, if she could be found, or, if she was not living, upon her children. The remaining half he designed as a legacy to a certain charitable institution in the city.

He stated that he had been searching for the Allandales for several weeks; he had learned of Mr. Allandale's financial troubles and subsequent death, but could get no trace whatever of the other members of the family. He was wearied out with his search, and now wished to turn the matter over to some one stronger than himself, and better versed in conducting such affairs.

Mr. Bryant could not fail to regard it as a singular coincidence that this business should have been thrown into his hands, especially as he was also so anxious to find Edith; and it can well be understood that he at once entered into the gentleman's plans with all his heart and soul.

He, of course, related all he knew of her history, and when he spoke of Mrs. Allandale's death he was startled to see his client grow deathly white and become so unnerved that, for a moment, he feared the shock would prove more than he could sustain.

But he recovered himself after a few moments.

"So she is gone!" he murmured, with a look in his eyes that told the secret of a deathless but unrequited love. "Well, Death's scythe spares no one, and perhaps it is better so. But this girl—her daughter," he added, rousing himself from his sad reflections; "we must try to find her."

"We will do our utmost," said the young lawyer, with a heartiness which betrayed the deep interest he felt in the matter. "As I have told you, I have not the slightest knowledge of her whereabouts, but think she may possibly be in Boston. Her letter to me, written just previous to her departure, gave me not the slightest clew to her destination. She promised to write to a woman who had been kind to her, and I arranged with her to let me know when she received a letter; but I have never seen her since—I once went to the house where she lived, but she had moved, and no one could tell me anything about her."

It may be as well to state here that shortly after Edith left New York, poor Mrs. O'Brien fell and broke her leg. She was taken to a hospital, and her children put into a home, consequently she never received Edith's letter, which was of course addressed to her old residence.

"I think our wisest course will be to advertise," the young lawyer pursued; "and if we do not achieve our end in that way, we can adopt other measures later on."

"Well, sir, do your best—I don't mind expense; and if the young lady can be found, I have a story to tell her which I think will deeply interest her," the gentleman returned. "If we should not be successful in the course of a few weeks, I will make a settlement upon her, to be left, with some other papers, in your hands for a reasonable period, in the event of my death. But if all your efforts prove unavailing, the money will eventually go, with the rest, to the institution I have named."

Thus the matter had been left, and Mr. Bryant had immediately advertised, as we have seen, in several New York and Boston papers.

Three weeks had elapsed without any response, and Royal Bryant was beginning to be discouraged when he was suddenly made jubilant by receiving the telegram which Edith had written on the train after leaving Boston.

Thus, after leaving the house of his cousin, he repaired to his club, where he wrote a letter to his client, Mr. Raymond, telling him that Miss Allandale was found, and asking him to meet him at his office at as early an hour the following morning as possible.