Needing a reference in the book which Mr. Murray had taken from the library, she went up to copy it; and as she sat down and opened the volume to find the passage she required, a letter slipped out and fell at her feet.  She glanced at the envelope as she picked it up, and her heart bounded painfully as she saw Mr. Murray’s name written in Mr. Manning’s peculiar and unmistakable chirography.

The postmark and date corresponded exactly with the one that she had received the night Mr. Murray gave her the roll of Ms., and the strongest temptation of her life here assailed her.  She would almost have given her right hand to know the contents of that letter, and Mr. Murray’s confident assertion concerning the package was now fully explained.  He had recognized the handwriting on her letters, and suspected her ambitious scheme.  He was not a stranger to Mr. Manning, and must have known the nature of their correspondence; consequently his taunt about a lover was entirely ironical.

She turned the unsealed envelope over and over longing to know what it contained.

The house was deserted—­there was, she knew, no human being nearer than the kitchen, and no eye but God’s upon her.  She looked once more at the superscription of the letter, sighed, and put it back into the book without opening the envelope.

She copied into her note-book the reference she was seeking, and replacing the volume on the window-sill where she had found it, went back to her own room and tried to banish the subject of the letter from her mind.

After all, it was not probable that Mr. Murray had ever mentioned her name to his correspondent; and as she had not alluded to Le Bocage or its inmates in writing to Mr. Manning, St. Elmo’s hints concerning her Ms. were merely based on conjecture.  She felt as if she would rather face any other disaster sooner than have him scoffing at her daring project; and more annoyed and puzzled than she chose to confess, she resolutely bent her thoughts upon her work.

It was almost dusk before Mrs. Murray and her guests returned; and when it grew so dark that Edna could not see the lines of her paper, she smoothed her hair, changed her dress, and went down to the parlor.

Mrs. Murray was resting in a corner of the sofa, fanning herself vigorously, and Mr. Allston smoked on the veranda, and talked to her through the open window.

“Well, Edna, where have you been all day?”

“With my books.”

“I am tired almost to death!  This country visiting is an intolerable bore!  I am worn out with small talk and back-biting.  Society nowadays is composed of cannibals—­infinitely more to be dreaded than the Fijians—­who only devour the body and leave the character of an individual intact.  Child, let us have some music by way of variety.  Play that symphony of Beethoven that I heard you practicing last week.”

She laid her head on the arm of the sofa, and shut her eyes, and
Edna opened the piano and played the piece designated.