University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.

I AM truly thankful that you have returned! I
am quite worn out trying to humor Felix's
whims, and take your place. He has actually
lost ten pounds; and if you had staid away a
month longer I think it would have finished my poor boy,
who has set you up as an idol in his heart. He almost had
a spasm last week, when his father told him he had better
reconcile himself to your absence, as he believed that you
would never come back to the drudgery of the school-room.
I am very anxious about him; his health is more feeble
than it has been since he was five years old. My dear, you
have no idea how you have been missed! Your admirers
call by scores to ascertain when you may be expected
home; and I do not exaggerate in the least when I say,
that there is a champagne basketful of periodicals and letters
up-stairs, that have arrived recently. You will find
them piled on the table and desk in your room.”

“Where are the children?” asked Edna, glancing around
the sitting-room into which Mrs. Andrews had drawn her.

“Hattie is spending the day with Lila Manning, who is
just recovering from a severe attack of scarlet fever, and
Felix is in the library trying to sleep. He has one of his
nervous headaches to-day. Poor fellow! he tries so hard
to overcome his irritable temper and to grow patient, that
I am growing fonder of him every day. How travel-spent

and ghastly you are! Sit down, and I will order some refreshments.
Take this wine, my dear, and presently you
shall have a cup of chocolate.”

“Thank you, not any wine. I only want to see Felix.”

She went to the library, cautiously opened the door, and
crept softly across the floor to the end of the sofa.

The boy lay looking through the window, and up beyond
the walls and chimneys, at the sapphire pavement, where
rolled the burning sun. Casual observers thought the cripple's
face ugly and disagreeable; but the tender, loving
smile that lighted the countenance of the governess as she
leaned forward, told that some charm lingered in the sharpened
features overcast with sickly sallowness. In his large,
deep-set eyes, over which the heavy brows arched like a
roof, she saw now a strange expression that frightened her.
Was it the awful shadow of the Three Singing Spinners,
whom Catullus painted at the wedding of Peleus? As the
child looked into the blue sky, did he catch a glimpse of
their trailing white robes, purple-edged—of their floating
rose-colored veils? Above all, did he hear the unearthly
chorus which they chanted as they spun?

“Currite ducentes, subtemina currite fusi!”

The governess was seized by a vague apprehension as
she watched her pupil, and bending down she said fondly:

“Felix, my darling, I have come back! Never again
while I live will I leave you.”

The almost bewildering joy that flashed into his countenance
mutely but eloquently welcomed her, as kneeling beside
the sofa she wound her arms around him, and drew his
head to her shoulder.

“Edna, is Mr. Hammond dead?”

“No, he is almost well again, and needs me no more.”

“I need you more than any body else ever did. O
Edna! I thought sometimes you would stay at the South
that you love so well, and I should see you no more; and
then all the light seemed to die out of the world, and the

flowers were not sweet, and the stars were not bright, and
oh! I was glad I had not long to live.”

“Hush! you must not talk so. How do you know that
you may not live as long as Ahasuerus, the `Everlasting
Jew'? My dear little boy, in all this wide earth, you are
the only one whom I have to love and to cling to, and we
will be happy together. Darling, your head aches to-day?”

She pressed her lips twice to his hot forehead.

“Yes; but the heart-ache was much the hardest to bear
until you came. Mamma has been very good and kind,
and staid at home and read to me; but I wanted you, Edna.
I do not believe I have been wicked since you left; for I
prayed all the while that God would bring you back to me.
I have tried hard to be patient.”

With her cheek nestled against his, Edna told him many
things that had occurred during their separation, and noticed
that his eyes brightened suddenly and strangely.

“Edna, I have a secret to tell you; something that even
mamma is not to know just now. You must not laugh at
me. While you were gone I wrote a little MS., and it is
dedicated to you! and some day I hope it will be printed.
Are you glad, Edna? My beautiful, pale Edna!”

“Felix, I am very glad you love me sufficiently to dedicate
your little MS. to me; but, my dear boy, I must see it
before I can say I am glad you wrote it.”

“If you had been here, it would not have been written,
because then I should merely have talked out all the ideas
to you; but you were far away, and so I talked to my
paper. After all, it was only a dream. One night I was
feverish, and mamma read aloud those passages that you
marked in that great book, Maury's Physical Geography
of the Sea, that you admire and quote so often; and of
which I remember you said once, in talking to Mr. Manning,
that `it rolled its warm, beautiful, sparkling waves
of thought across the cold, gray sea of science, just like the
Gulf Stream it treated of.' Two of the descriptions which

mamma read, were so splendid that they rang in my ears
like the music of the Swiss Bell-Ringers. One was the account
of the atmosphere, by Dr. Buist of Bombay, and the
other was the description of the Indian Ocean, which was
quoted from Schleiden's Lecture. My fever was high, and
when at last I went to sleep, I had a queer dream about
madrepores and medusæ, and I wrote it down as well as I
could, and called it `Algæ Adventures, in a Voyage Round
the World.' Edna, I have stolen something from you, and
as you will be sure to find it out when you read my little
story, where there is a long, hard word missing in the MS.,
I will tell you about it now. Do you recollect talking to
me one evening, when we were walking on the beach at
The Willows, about some shell-clad animalcula, which you
said were so very small that Professor Schultze, of Bonn,
found no less than a million and a half of their minute shells
in an ounce of pulverized quartz, from the shore of Mola di
Gaeta? Well, I put all you told me in my little MS.; but,
for my life, I could not think of the name of the class to
which they belong. Do you recollect it?”

“Let me think a moment. Was it not Foraminifera?”

“That's the identical word—`Foraminifera!' No wonder
I could not think of it! Six syllables tied up in a scientific
knot. Phew! it makes my head ache worse to try
to recollect it. How stoop-shouldered your memory must
be from carrying such heavy loads! It is a regular camel.”

“Yes; it is a meek, faithful beast of burden, and will
very willingly bear the weight of that scientific name until
you want to use it; so do not tax your mind now. You
said you stole it from me, but my dear, ambitious authorling,
my little round-jacket scribbler, I wish you to understand
distinctly that I do not consider that I have been
robbed. The fact was discovered by Professor Schultze,
and bequeathed by him to the world. From that instant
it became universal, common property, which any man,
woman, or child may use at pleasure, provided a tribute

of gratitude is paid to the donor. Every individual is in
some sort an intellectual bank, issuing bills of ideas, (very
often specious, but not always convertible into gold or silver;)
and now, my precious little boy, recollect that just
as long as I have any capital left, you can borrow; and
some day I will turn Shylock, and make you pay me with
usury.”

“Edna, I should like above all things to write a book of
stories for poor, sick children; little tales that would make
them forget their suffering and deformity. If I could even
reconcile one lame boy to being shut up in-doors, while
others are shouting and skating in the sunshine, I should
not feel as if I were so altogether useless in the world.
Edna, do you think that I ever shall be able to do so?”

“Perhaps so, dear Felix; certainly, if God wills it.
When you are stronger we will study and write together,
but to-day you must compose yourself and be silent. Your
fever is rising.”

“The doctor left some medicine yonder in that goblet,
but mamma has forgotten to give it to me. I will take a
spoonful now, if you please.”

His face was much flushed; and as she kissed him and
turned away, he exclaimed:

“Oh! where are you going?”

“To my room, to take off my bonnet.”

“Do not be gone long. I am so happy now that you are
here again. But I don't want you to get out of my sight.
Come back soon, and bathe my head.”

On the following day, when Mr. Manning called to welcome
her home, he displayed an earnestness and depth of
feeling which surprised the governess. Putting his hand
on her arm, he said in a tone that had lost its metallic
ring:

“How fearfully changed since I saw you last! I knew
you were not strong enough to endure the trial; and if I
had had a right to interfere, you should never have gone.”

“Mr. Manning, I do not quite comprehend your allusion.”

“Edna, to see you dying by inches is bitter indeed! I
believed that you would marry Murray—at least I knew
any other woman would—and I felt that to refuse his affection
would be a terrible trial, through which you could
not pass with impunity. Why you rejected him I have no
right to inquire, but I have a right to ask you to let me
save your life. I am well aware that you do not love me;
but at least you can esteem and entirely trust me; and
once more I hold out my hand to you and say, give me the
wreck of your life! oh! give me the ruins of your heart!
I will guard you tenderly; we will go to Europe—to the
East; and rest of mind, and easy travelling, and change of
scene, will restore you. I never realized, never dreamed
how much my happiness depended upon you, until you left
the city. I have always relied so entirely upon myself, feeling
the need of no other human being; but now, separated
from you I am restless, am conscious of a vague discontent.
If you spend the next year as you have spent the last, you
will not survive it. I have conferred with your physician.
He reluctantly told me your alarming condition, and I have
come to plead with you for the last time not to continue
your suicidal course, not to destroy the life which, if worthless
to you, is inexpressibly precious to a man who prays
to be allowed to take care of it. A man who realizes that
it is necessary to the usefulness and peace of his own lonely
life; who wishes no other reward on earth but the privilege
of looking into your approving eyes, when his daily
work is ended, and he sits down at his fireside. Edna, I
do not ask for your love, but I beg for your hand, your
confidence, your society—for the right to save you from
toil. Will you go to the Old World with me?”

Looking suddenly up at him, she was astonished to find
tears in his searching and usually cold eyes.

Scandinavian tradition reports that seven parishes were

once overwhelmed, and still lie buried under snow and ice,
and yet occasionally those church-bells are heard ringing
clearly under the glaciers of the Folge Fond.

So, in the frozen, crystal depths of this man's nature, his
long silent, smothered affections began to chime.

A proud smile trembled over Edna's face, as she saw
how entirely she possessed the heart of one, whom above
all other men she most admired.

“Mr. Manning, the assertion that you regard your life as
imperfect, incomplete, without the feeble complement of
mine—that you find your greatest happiness in my society,
is the most flattering, the most gratifying tribute which
ever has been, or ever can be paid to my intellect. It is a
triumph indeed; and, because unsought, surely it is a pardonable
pride that makes my heart throb. This assurance
of your high regard is the brightest earthly crown I shall
ever wear. But, sir, you err egregiously in supposing that
you would be happy wedded to a woman who did not love
you. You think now that if we were only married, my
constant presence in your home, my implicit confidence in
your character, would fully content you; but here you fail
to understand your own heart, and I know that the consciousness
that my affection was not yours would make
you wretched. No, no! my dear, noble friend! God
never intended us for each other. I can not go to the Old
World with you. I know how peculiarly precarious is my
tenure of life, and how apparently limited is my time for
work in this world, but I am content. I try to labor faithfully,
listening for the summons of Him who notices even
the death of sparrows. God will not call me hence, so long
as He has any work for me to do on earth; and when I become
useless, and can no longer serve Him here, I do not
wish to live. Through Christ I am told, `Let not your
heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.' Mr. Manning,
I am not ignorant of, nor indifferent to, my physical condition;

but, thank God! I can say truly, I am not troubled
neither am I afraid, and my faith is—

The editor took off his glasses and wiped them, but the
dimness was in his eyes; and after a minute, during which
he recovered his cold calmness, and hushed the holy chime,
muffling the Folge Fond bells, he said gravely and quietly:

“Edna, one favor, at least, you will grant me. The
death of a relative in Louisiana has placed me in possession
of an ample fortune, and I wish you to take my little Lila
and travel for several years. You are the only woman I
ever knew to whom I would intrust her and her education,
and it would gratify me beyond expression to feel that I
had afforded you the pleasure which can not fail to result
from such a tour. Do not be too proud to accept a little
happiness from my hands.”

“Thank you, my generous, noble friend! I gratefully
accept a great deal of happiness at this instant, but your
kind offer I must decline. I can not leave Felix.”

He sighed, took his hat, and his eyes ran over the face
and figure of the governess.

“Edna Earl, your stubborn will makes you nearly akin
to those gigantic fuci which are said to grow and flourish
as submarine forests in the stormy channel of Terra del
Fuego, where they shake their heads defiantly always trembling,
always triumphing, in the fierce lashing of waves
that wear away rocks. You belong to a very rare order of
human algæ, rocked and reared in the midst of tempests
that would either bow down, or snap asunder, or beat out
most natures. As you will not grant my petition, try to
forget it; we will bury the subject. Good-by! I shall
call to-morrow afternoon to take you to ride.”

With renewed zest Edna devoted every moment stolen
from Felix, to the completion of her new book. Her first
had been a “bounteous promise”—at least so said criticdom—and
she felt that the second would determine her literary
position, would either place her reputation as an
author beyond all cavil, or utterly crush her ambition.

Sometimes as she bent over her MS., and paused to re-read
some passage just penned, which she had laboriously composed,
and thought particularly good as an illustration of
the idea she was striving to embody perspicuously, a smile
would flit across her countenance while she asked herself:

“Will my readers see it as I see it? Will they thank
me for my high opinion of their culture, in assuming that
it will be quite as plain to them as to me? If there should
accidentally be an allusion to classical or scientific literature,
which they do not understand at the first hasty, careless,
novel-reading glance, will they inform themselves, and then
appreciate my reason for employing it, and thank me for
the hint; or will they attempt to ridicule my pedantry?
When will they begin to suspect that what they may imagine
sounds `learned' in my writings, merely appears so
to them because they have not climbed high enough to see
how vast, how infinite is the sphere of human learning?
No, no, dear reader shivering with learning-phobia, I am
not learned. You are only a little, a very little more ignorant.
Doubtless you know many things which I should be
glad to learn; come, let us barter. Let us all study the life
of Giovanni Pico Mirandola, and then we shall begin to
understand the meaning of the word `learned.'”

Edna unintentionally and continually judged her readers
according to her own standard, and so eager, so unquenchable
was her thirst for knowledge, that she could not
understand how the utterance of some new fact, or the redressing
and presentation of some forgotten idea, could
possibly be regarded as an insult by the person thus benefited.
Her first book taught her that what was termed

her “surplus paraded erudition,” had wounded the amour
propre of the public; but she was conscientiously experimenting
on public taste, and though some of her indolent,
luxurious readers, who wished even their thinking done by
proxy, shuddered at the “spring water pumped upon their
nerves,” she good-naturedly overlooked their grimaces and
groans, and continued the hydropathic treatment even in
her second book, hoping some good effects from the shock.
Of one intensely gratifying fact she could not fail to be
thoroughly informed, by the avalanche of letters which
almost daily covered her desk; she had at least ensconced
herself securely in a citadel, whence she could smilingly defy
all assaults—in the warm hearts of her noble countrywomen.
Safely sheltered in their sincere and devoted love, she cared
little for the shafts that rattled and broke against the rocky
ramparts, and, recoiling, dropped out of sight in the moat
below.

So with many misgivings, and much hope, and great
patience, she worked on assiduously, and early in summer
her book was finished and placed in the publisher's hands.

In the midst of her anxiety concerning its reception, a
new and terrible apprehension took possession of her; for it
became painfully evident that Felix, whose health had never
been good, was slowly but steadily declining.

Mrs. Andrews and Edna took him to Sharon, to Saratoga,
and to various other favorite resorts for invalids, but with
no visible results that were at all encouraging, and at last
they came home almost disheartened. Dr. Howell finally
prescribed a sea-voyage, and a sojourn of some weeks at
Eaux Bonne in the Pyrenees, as those waters had effected
some remarkable cures.

As the doctor quitted the parlor, where he had held a
conference with Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, the latter turned
to her husband, saying:

“It is useless to start anywhere with Felix unless Miss
Earl can go with us; for he would fret himself to death in a

week. Really, Louis, it is astonishing to see how devoted
they are to each other. Feeble as that woman is, she will
always sit up whenever there is any medicine to be given
during the night; and while he was so ill at Sharon, she
did not close her eyes for a week. I can't help feeling jealous
of his affection for her, and I spoke to her about it. He
was asleep at the time, with his hand grasping one of hers;
and when I told her how trying it was for a mother to see
her child's whole heart given to a stranger, to hear morning,
noon, and night, `Edna,' always `Edna,' never once
`mamma,' I wish you could have seen the strange suffering
expression that came into her pale face. Her lips trembled
so that she could scarcely speak; but she said meekly, `Oh!
forgive me if I have won your child's heart; but I love him.
You have your husband and daughter, your brother and sister;
but I—oh! I have only Felix! I have nothing else to
cling to in all this world!' Then she kissed his poor little
fingers, and wept as if her heart would break, and wrung
her hands, and begged me again and again to forgive her
if he loved her best. She is the strangest woman I ever
knew; sometimes when she is sitting by me in church, I
watch her calm, cold, white face, and she makes me think
of a snow statue; but if Felix says any thing to arouse her
feelings and call out her affection, she is a volcano. It is very
rarely that one finds a beautiful woman, distinguished by
her genius, admired and courted by the reading public, devoting
herself as she does to our dear little crippled darling.
While I confess I am jealous of her, her kindness to my
child makes me love her more than I can express. Louis,
she must go with us. Poor thing! she seems to be failing
almost as fast as Felix; and I verily believe if he should
die, it would kill her. Did you notice how she paced the
floor while the doctors were consulting in Felix's room?
She loves nothing but my precious lame boy.”

“Certainly, Kate, she must go with you. I quite agree
with you, my dear, that Felix is dependent upon her, and

would not derive half the benefit from the trip, if she remained
at home. I confess she has cured me to a great
extent, of my horror of literary characters. She is the only
one I ever saw who was really lovable, and not a walking
parody on her own writings. You would be surprised at
the questions constantly asked me, about her habits and
temper. People seem so curious to learn all the routine of
her daily life. Last week a member of our club quoted
something from her writings, and said that she was one of
the few authors of the day whose books, without having
first examined, he would put into the hands of his daughters.
He remarked: `I can trust my girls' characters to
her training, for she is a true woman; and if she errs at all
in any direction, it is the right one, only a little too rigidly
followed.' I am frequently asked how she is related to me,
for people can not believe that she is merely the governess
of our children. Kate, will you tell her that it is my
desire that she should accompany you? Speak to her at
once, that I may know how many state-rooms I shall engage
on the steamer.”

“Come with me, Louis, and speak to her yourself.”

They went up-stairs together, and paused on the threshold
of Felix's room, to observe what was passing within.

The boy was propped by pillows into an upright position
on the sofa, and was looking curiously into a small basket
which Edna held on her lap.

She was reading to him a touching little letter just received
from an invalid child, who had never walked, who
was confined always to the house, and wrote to thank her,
in sweet, childish style, for a story which she had read in
the Magazine, and which made her very happy.

The invalid stated that her chief amusement consisted in
tending a few flowers that grew in pots in her windows;
and in token of her gratitude, she had made a nosegay of
mignonnette, pansies, and geranium and wax-plant leaves,
which she sent with her scrawling letter.

In conclusion, the child asked that the woman whom,
without having seen, she yet loved, would be so kind as to
give her a list of such books as a little girl ought to study,
and to write her “just a few lines” that she could keep
under her pillow, to look at now and then. As Edna finished
reading the note, Felix took it to examine the small
indistinct characters, and said:

“Dear little thing! Don't you wish we knew her?
`Louie Lawrence.' Of course you will answer it, Edna?”

“Yes, immediately, and tell her how grateful I am for
her generosity in sparing me a portion of her pet flowers.
Each word in her sweet little letter is as precious as a
pearl, for it came from the very depths of her pure heart.”

“Oh! what a blessed thing it is to feel that you are
doing some good in the world! That little Louie says she
prays for you every night before she goes to sleep! What a
comfort such letters must be to you! Edna, how happy
you look! But there are tears shining in your eyes, they
always come when you are glad. What books will you tell
her to study?”

“I will think about the subject, and let you read my
answer. Give me the `notelet;' I want to put it away
securely among my treasures. How deliciously fragrant
the flowers are! Only smell them, Felix! Here, my darling,
I will give them to you, and write to the little Louie
how happy she made two people.”

She lifted the delicate bouquet so daintily fashioned by
fairy child-fingers, inhaled the rich perfume, and, as she put
it in the thin fingers of the cripple, she bent forward and
kissed his fever-parched lips. At this instant Felix saw his
parents standing at the door, and held up the flowers triumphantly.

“O mamma! come smell this mignonnette. Why can't
we grow some in boxes, in our windows?”

Mr. Andrews leaned over his son's pillows, softly put his
hand on the boy's forehead, and said:

“My son, Miss Earl professes to love you very much, but
I doubt whether she really means all she says; and I am
determined to satisfy myself fully. Just now I can not
leave my business, but mamma intends to take you to
Europe next week, and I want to know whether Miss Earl
will leave all her admirers here, and go with you, and help
mamma to nurse you. Do you think she will?”

Mrs. Andrews stood with her hand resting on the shoulder
of the governess, watching the varying expression of her
child's countenance.

“I think, papa—I hope she will; I believe she—”

He paused, and, struggling up from his pillows, he
stretched out his poor little arms, and exclaimed:

“O Edna! you will go with me? You promised you
would never forsake me! Tell papa you will go.”

His head was on her shoulder, his arms were clasped
tightly around her neck. She hid her face on his, and was
silent.

Mr. Andrews placed his hand on the orphan's bowed
head.

“Miss Earl, you must let me tell you that I look upon
you as a member of my family; that my wife and I love
you almost as well as if you were one of our children; and
I hope you will not refuse to accompany Kate on the tour
she contemplates. Let me take your own father's place;
and I shall regard it as a great favor to me and mine if you
will consent to go, and allow me to treat you always as I
do my Hattie. I have no doubt you will derive as much
benefit from travelling, as I certainly hope for Felix.”

“Thank you, Mr. Andrews, I appreciate your generosity,
and I prize the affection and confidence which you and your
wife have shown me. I came, an utter stranger, into your
house, and you kindly made me one of the family circle.
I am alone in the world, and have become strongly attached
to your children. Felix is not merely my dear pupil,
he is my brother, my companion, my little darling! I can

not be separated from him. Next to his mother he belongs
to me. Oh! I will travel with him anywhere that you and
Mrs. Andrews think it best he should go. I will never,
never leave him.”

She disengaged the boy's arms, laid him back on his
pillows, and went to her own room.

In the midst of prompt preparations for departure,Edna's
new novel appeared. She had christened it “Shining
Thrones of the Hearth,” and dedicated it “To my
countrywomen, the Queens who reign thereon.”

The aim of the book was to discover the only true and
allowable and womanly sphere of feminine work, and,
though the theme was threadbare, she fearlessly picked up
the frayed woof and rewove it.

The tendency of the age was to equality and communism,
and this, she contended, was undermining the golden thrones
shining in the blessed and hallowed light of the hearth,
whence every true woman ruled the realm of her own family.
Regarding every pseudo “reform” which struck down
the social and political distinction of the sexes, as a blow
that crushed one of the pillars of woman's throne, she
earnestly warned the Crowned Heads of the danger to be
apprehended, from the unfortunate and deluded female malcontents,
who, dethroned in their own realm, and despised
by their quondam subjects, roamed as pitiable, royal exiles,
threatening to usurp man's kingdom; and to proud, happy
mothers, guarded by Prætorian bands of children, she reiterated
the assurance that

Most assiduously she sifted the records of history, tracing
in every epoch the sovereigns of the hearth-throne who had
reigned wisely and contentedly, ennobling and refining humanity;
and she proved by illustrious examples that the
borders of the feminine realm could not be enlarged, without
rendering the throne unsteady, and subverting God's

law of order. Woman reigned by divine right only at
home. If married, in the hearts of husband and children,
and not in the gilded, bedizened palace of fashion, where
thinly veiled vice and frivolity hold carnival, and social
upas and social asps wave and trail. If single, in the affections
of brothers and sisters and friends, as the golden sceptre
in the hands of parents. If orphaned, she should find
sympathy and gratitude and usefulness among the poor
and the afflicted.

Edna attached vast importance to individual influence,
and fearing that enthusiastic young minds would be captivated
by the charms of communism in labor, she analyzed
the systems of “sisterhoods” which had waxed and waned
from the Béguinages of the eleventh century, to Kaiserswerth,
and Miss Sellon's establishment at Devenport. While
she paid all honor to the noble self-abnegation and exalted
charity which prompted their organization, she pointed out
some lurking dangers in all systems which permanently removed
woman from the heaven-decreed ark of the family
hearthstone.

Consulting the statistics of single women, and familiarizing
herself with the arguments advanced by the advocates
of that “progress,” which would indiscriminately
throw open all professions to women, she entreated the
poor of her own sex, if ambitious, to become sculptors,
painters, writers, teachers in schools or families; or else to
remain mantua-makers, milliners, spinners, dairy-maids;
but on the peril of all womanhood not to meddle with scalpel
or red tape, and to shun rostra of all descriptions, remembering
St. Paul's injunction, that “It is not permitted
unto women to speak;” and even that “It is a shame for
women to speak in the church.”

To married women who thirsted for a draught of the
turbid waters of politics, she said: “If you really desire to
serve the government under which you live, recollect that it
was neither the speeches thundered from the forum, nor the

prayers of priests and augurs, nor the iron tramp of glittering
legions, but the ever triumphant, maternal influence,
the potent, the pleading `My son!' of Volumnia, the mother
of Coriolanus, that saved Rome.”

To discontented spinsters, who travelled like Pandora
over the land, haranguing audiences that secretly laughed
at and despised them, to these unfortunate women, clamoring
for power and influence in the national councils, she
pointed out that quiet happy home at `Barley Wood,'
whence immortal Hannah More sent forth those writings
which did more to tranquillize England, and bar the hearts
of its yeomanry against the temptations of red republicanism
than all the eloquence of Burke,and the cautious measures
of Parliament.

Some errors of style, which had been pointed out by
critics as marring her earlier writings, Edna had endeavored
to avoid in this book, which she humbly offered to her
countrywomen as the best of which she was capable.

From the day of its appearance it was a noble success;
and she had the gratification of hearing that some of the
seed she had sown broadcast in the land, fell upon good
ground,and promised an abundant harvest.

Many who called to bid her good-by on the day before
the steamer sailed, found it impossible to disguise their apprehension
that she would never return; and some who
looked tearfully into her face and whispered “God speed!”
thought they saw the dread signet of death set on her
white brow.

To Edna it was inexpressibly painful to cross the Atlantic
while Mr. Hammond's health was so feeble; and over
the long farewell letter which she sent him, with a copy of
her new book, the old man wept. Mrs. Murray had seemed
entirely estranged since that last day spent at Le Bocage,
and had not written a line since the orphan's return to New-York.
But when she received the new novel, and the affectionate,

mournful, meek note that accompanied it, Mrs. Murray
laid her head on her son's bosom and sobbed aloud.

Dr. Howell and Mr. Manning went with Edna aboard
the steamer, and both laughed heartily at her efforts to disengage
herself from a pertinacious young book-vender, who,
with his arms full of copies of her own book, stopped her
on deck, and volubly extolled its merits, insisting that she
should buy one to while away the tedium of the voyage.

Dr. Howell gave final directions concerning the treatment
of Felix, and then came to speak to the governess.

“Even now, sadly as you have abused your constitution,
I shall have some hope of seeing gray hairs about your
temples, if you will give yourself unreservedly to relaxation
of mind. You have already accomplished so much,
that you can certainly afford to rest for some months
at least. Read nothing, write nothing, (except long letters
to me,) study nothing but the aspects of nature in
European scenery, and you will come back improved, to
the country that is so justly proud of you. Disobey my
injunctions, and I shall soon be called to mourn over the
announcement that you have found an early grave, far from
your native land, and among total strangers. God bless
you, dear child! and bring you safely back to us.”

As he turned away, Mr. Manning took her hand and said:

“I hope to meet you in Rome early in February; but
something might occur to veto my programme. If I should
never see you again in this world, is there any thing that
you wish to say to me now?”

“Yes, Mr. Manning. If I should die in Europe, have my
body brought back to America and carried to the South—
my own dear South, that I love so well—and bury me close
to Grandpa, where I can sleep quietly in the cool shadow
of old Lookout; and be sure, please be sure to have my
name carved just below Grandpa's, on his monument. I
want that one marble to stand for us both.”

“I will. Is there nothing else?”

“Thank you, my dear, good, kind friend! Nothing else.”

“Edna, promise me that you will take care of your precious
life.”

“I will try, Mr. Manning.”

He looked down into her worn, weary face and sighed;
then for the first time he took both her hands, kissed them,
and left her.

Swiftly the steamer took its way seaward; through the
Narrows, past the lighthouse; and the wind sang through
the rigging, and the purple hills of Jersey faded from view,
proving Neversink a misnomer.

One by one the passengers went below, and Edna and
Felix were left on deck, with stars burning above, and blue
waves bounding beneath them.

As the cripple sat looking over the solemn, moaning
ocean, awed by its brooding gloom, did he catch in the
silvery starlight a second glimpse of the rose-colored veils,
and snowy vittæ, and purple-edged robes of the Parcæ,
spinning and singing as they followed the ship across the
sobbing sea? He shivered, and clasping tightly the hand
of his governess, said:

“Edna, we shall never see the Neversink again.”

“God only knows, dear Felix. His will be done.”

Over the rolling waves rang the ominous ghostly chant,

And faith, clasping the cross for support, listened, and
answered, smiling meekly: