One Thursday afternoon, when a number of persons had been invited to dine at Le Bocage, and Mrs. Murray was engrossed by preparations for their entertainment, Edna took her Greek books and stole away unobserved to the parsonage, where she spent a quiet evening in reading aloud from the Organon of Aristotle.

It was quite late when Mr. Hammond took her home in his buggy, and bade her good-night at the doorstep.  As she entered the house she saw several couples promenading on the veranda, and heard Estelle and Clinton Allston singing a duet from “Il Trovatore.”  Passing the parlor door, one quick glance showed her Mr. Murray and Mr. Leigh standing together under the chandelier—­the latter gentleman talking earnestly, the former with his gaze fastened on the carpet, and a chilling smile fixed on his lip.  The faces of the two presented a painful contrast—­one fair, hopeful, bright with noble aims, and youthful yet manly beauty; the other swarthy, cold, repulsive as some bronze image of Abaddon.  For more than three weeks Edna had not spoken to Mr. Murray, except to say “good-morning,” as she entered the dining-room or passed him in the hall; and now, with a sigh which she did not possess the courage to analyze, she went up to her room and sat down to read.

Among the books on her desk was Machiavelli’s Prince and History of Florence, and the copy, which was an exceedingly handsome one, contained a portrait of the author.  Between the regular features of the Florentine satirist and those of the master of the house, Edna had so frequently found a startling resemblance, that she one day mentioned the subject to Mrs. Murray, who, after a careful examination of the picture, was forced to admit, rather ungraciously, that, “they certainly looked somewhat alike.”  To-night, as the orphan lifted the volume from its resting-place, it opened at the portrait, and she looked long at the handsome face which, had the lips been thinner, and the hair thicker and more curling at the temples, might have been daguerreotyped from that one downstairs under the chandelier.

One maxim of the Prince had certainly been adopted by Mr. Murray, “It is safer to be feared than to be loved”; and, while the orphan detested the crafty and unscrupulous policy of Niccolo Machiavelli, her reason told her that the character of St. Elmo Murray was scarcely more worthy of respect.

She heard the guests take their departure, heard Mrs. Murray ask Hagar whether “Edna had returned from the parsonage,” and then doors were closed and the house grew silent.

Vain were the girl’s efforts to concentrate her thoughts on her books or upon her Ms., they wandered toward the portrait; and, finally remembering that she needed a book of reference, she lighted a candle, took the copy of Machiavelli, which she determined to put out of sight, and went down to the library.  The smell of a cigar aroused her suspicions as she entered, and, glancing nervously around the room, she saw Mr. Murray seated before the window.