University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

MRS. POWELL and her daughter, to see Miss
Estelle and Miss Edna.”

“Why did not you 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 Estelle laughed, and put up her red, full lip.

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 curious 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 woman,
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
gambolling over the lawn.

As they stood hand in hand, admiring some gold-fish 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 La
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.

“O 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,
nor 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 any thing
had never until this hour occurred to her; and while she
could neither tolerate his opinions nor 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.

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, short-sighted 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 saw-mill, 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 road
side, waiting for Jesus.”

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 I 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. Murray came out of the house.

“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 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 slight fingers locked themselves tightly, her
beautiful lips uttered mournfully:

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. Elmo, as I wished to speak to him about
some engagements for to-morrow.”

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 every thing 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 New-York? It is already overstocked
with poor men and women, who are on the verge of starvation.
Pooh! pooh! you look like making your bread.
Don't be silly.”

“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 can not 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 can not 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 unutterably
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.

“O 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 that 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 every body, 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, 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:

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-company 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 wet.”

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: