Sympathy for Miss Harding’s recent and severe affliction prepared Edna’s heart to receive her cordially, and the fact that an irreconcilable feud eristed between the stranger and St. Elmo, induced the orphan to hope that she might find a congenial companion in the expected visitor.

On the afternoon of her arrival, Edna leaned eagerly forward to catch a glimpse of her countenance, and as she threw back her long mourning-veil, and received her aunt’s affectionate greeting, the first impression was, “How exceedingly handsome—­how commanding she is!” But a few minutes later, when Mrs. Murray introduced them, and the stranger’s keen, bright, restless eyes fell upon the orphan’s face, the latter drew back, involuntarily repelled, and a slight shiver crept over her, for an unerring instinctive repulsion told her they could never be friends.

Estelle Harding was no longer young; years had hardened the outline of her features, and imparted a certain staidness or fixedness to her calm countenance, where strong feeling or passionate impulse was never permitted to slip the elegant mask of polished suavity.  She was surprisingly like Mrs. Murray, but not one line of her face resembled her cousin’s.  Fixing her eyes on Edna, with a cold, almost stern scrutiny more searching than courteous, she said: 

“I was not aware, Aunt Ellen, that you had company in the house.”

“I have no company at present, my dear.  Edna resides here.  Do you not remember one of my letters in which I mentioned the child who was injured by the railroad accident?”

“True.  I expected to see a child, certainly not a woman.”

“She seems merely a child to me.  But come up to your room; you must be very much fatigued by your journey.”

When they left the sitting-room Edna sat down in one corner of the sofa, disappointed and perplexed.

“She does not like me, that is patent; and I certainly do not like her.  She is handsome and very graceful, and quite heartless.  There is no inner light from her soul shining in her eyes; nothing tender and loving and kind in their clear depths; they are cold, bright eyes, but not soft, winning, womanly eyes.  They might, and doubtless would, hold an angry dog in check, but never draw a tired, fretful child to lean its drooping head on her lap.  If she really has any feeling, her eyes should be indicted for slander.  I am sorry I don’t like her, and I am afraid we never shall be nearer each other than touching our finger-tips.”

Such was Edna’s unsatisfactory conclusion, and dismissing the subject, she picked up a book, and read until the ladies returned and seated themselves around the fire.