Edith was scarcely changed in these five years—­a life without excitement or privation or toil—­a life of moderation and regularity—­of easy household duties, and quiet family affections, had restored and preserved her maiden beauty.  And now her pretty hair had its own will, and fell in slight, flossy black ringlets down each side the pearly brow and cheeks; and nothing could have been more in keeping with the style of her beauty than the simple, close-fitting black gown, her habitual dress.

But lovely as the young mother was, you would scarcely have looked at her a second time while she held that child by her hand—­so marvelous was the fascination of that little creature’s countenance.  It was a face to attract, to charm, to delight, to draw you in, and rivet your whole attention, until you became absorbed and lost in the study of its mysterious spell—­a witching face, whose nameless charm it were impossible to tell, I might describe the fine dark Jewish features, the glorious eyes, the brilliant complexion, and the fall of long, glossy, black ringlets that veiled the proud little head; but the spell lay not in them, any more than in the perfect symmetry of her form, or the harmonious grace of her motion, or the melodious intonations of her voice.

Edith, still leading the little girl, advanced to Marian’s side, where the latter stood at the yard gate.

“I heard a scream, Marian, dear—­what was it?”

Marian pointed to the old elm tree outside the cottage fence, under the shade of which stood the poor stroller, pressing her side, and panting for breath.

“Edith, do you see that young woman?  She it was.”

“Good heaven!” exclaimed Edith, turning a shade paler, and beginning, with trembling fingers, to unfasten the gate.

“Why, do you know her, Edith?”

“Yes! yes!  My soul, it is Fanny Laurie!  I thought she was in some asylum at the North!” said Edith, passing the gate, and going up to the wanderer.  “Fanny!  Fanny!  Dearest Fanny!” she said, taking her thin hand, and looking in her crazed eyes and lastly, putting both arms around her neck and kissing her.

“Do you kiss me?” asked the poor creature, in amazement.

“Yes, dear Fanny!  Don’t you know me?”

“Yes, yes, you are—­I know you—­you are—­let’s see, now—­”

“Edith Lance, you know—­your old playmate!”

“Ah! yes, I know—­you had another name.”

“Edith Shields, since I was married, but I am widowed now, Fanny.”

“Yes, I know—­Fanny has heard them talk!”

She swept her hands across her brow several times, as if to clear her mental vision, and gazing upon Edith, said: 

“Ah! old playmate!  Did the palms lie?  The ravaged tome, the blood-stained hearth, and the burning roof for me—­the fated nuptials, the murdered bridegroom, and the fatherless child for you.  Did the palms lie, Edith?  You were ever incredulous!  Answer, did the palms lie?”