She laid the open letter on the desk and covered her face with her hands.

Mrs. Murray took up the sheet, glanced at the signature, and said: 

“Look at me; don’t hide your face, that argues something wrong.”

Edna raised her head, and lifted her eyes full of tears to meet the scrutiny from which there was no escape.

“Mr. Manning’s signature somewhat reassures me, and beside, I never knew you to prevaricate or attempt to deceive me.  Your habitual truthfulness encourages me to believe you, and I will not insist on reading this letter, though I can not imagine why you should object to it.  But, Edna, I am disappointed in you, and in return for the confidence I have always reposed in you, I want you to answer candidly the question I am about to ask.  Why did you refuse to marry Gordon Leigh?”

“Because I did not love him.”

“Oh, pooh! that seems incredible, for he is handsome and very attractive, and some young ladies show very plainly that they love him, though they have never been requested to do so.  There is only one way in which I can account for your refusal, and I wish you to tell me the truth.  You are unwilling to marry Gordon because you love somebody else better.  Child, whom do you love?”

“No, indeed, no!  I like Mr. Leigh as well as any gentleman I know; but I love no one except you and Mr. Hammond.”

Mrs. Murray put her hand under the girl’s chin, looked at her for some seconds, and sighed heavily.

“Child, I find it difficult to believe you.”

“Why, whom do you suppose I could love?  Mr. Leigh is certainly more agreeable than anybody else I know.”

“But girls sometimes take strange whims in these matters.  Do you ever expect to receive a better offer than Mr. Leigh’s?”

“As far as fortune is concerned, I presume I never shall have so good an opportunity again.  But, Mrs. Murray, I would rather marry a poor man, whom I really loved, and who had to earn his daily bread, than to be Mr. Leigh’s wife and own that beautiful house he is building.  I know you wish me to accept him, and that you think me very unwise, very short-sighted; but it is a question which I have settled after consulting my conscience and my heart.”

“And you give me your word of honor that you love no other gentleman better than Gordon?”

“Yes, Mrs. Murray, I assure you that I do not.”

As the mistress of the house looked down into the girl’s beautiful face, and passed her hand tenderly over the thick, glossy folds of hair that crowned the pure brow, she wondered if it were possible that her son could ever regard the orphan with affection; and she asked her own heart why she could not willingly receive her as a daughter.

Mrs. Murray believed that she entertained a sincere friendship for Mrs. Inge, and yet she had earnestly endeavored to marry her brother to a girl whom she could not consent to see the wife of her own son.  Verily, when human friendships are analyzed, it seems a mere poetic fiction that—­