“Is it possible?  Who assisted you—­who revised it, Mr. Hammond?  I did not suppose that you, my child, could ever write so elegantly, so gracefully.”

“No one saw the Ms. until Mr. Manning gave it to the printers.  I wished to surprise Mr. Hammond, and therefore told him nothing of my ambitious scheme.  I was very apprehensive that I should fail, and for that reason was unwilling to acquaint you with the precise subject of the correspondence until I was sure of success.  Oh, Mrs. Murray!  I have no mother, and feeling that I owe everything to you—­ that without your generous aid and protection I should never have been able to accomplish this one hope of my life, I come to you to share my triumph, for I know you will fully sympathize with me.  Here is the magazine containing Mr. Manning’s praise of my work, and here are the letters which I was once so reluctant to put into your hands.  When I asked you to trust me, you did so nobly and freely; and thanking you more than my feeble words can express, I want to show you that I was not unworthy of your confidence.”

She laid magazine and letters on Mrs. Murray’s lap, and in silence the proud, reserved woman wound her arms tightly around the orphan, pressing the bright young face against her shoulder, and resting her own cheek on the girl’s fair forehead.

The door was partly ajar, and at that instant St. Elmo entered.

He stopped, looked at the kneeling figure locked so closely in his mother’s arms, and over his stern face broke a light that transformed it into such beauty as Lucifer’s might have worn before his sin and banishment, when God—­

   “’Lucifer’—­kindly said as ‘Gabriel,’
    ’Lucifer’—­soft as ‘Michael’; while serene
     He, standing in the glory of the lamps,
     Answered, ‘My Father,’ innocent of shame
     And of the sense of thunder!”

Yearningly he extended his arms toward the two, who, absorbed in their low talk, were unconscious of his presence; then the hands fell heavily to his side, the brief smile was swallowed up by scowling shadows, and he turned silently away and went to his own gloomy rooms.

CHAPTER XX.

“Mrs. Powell and her daughter to see Miss Estelle and Miss Edna.”

“Why did you not say we were at dinner?” cried Mrs. Murray, impatiently, darting an angry glance at the servant.

“I did, ma’am, but they said they would wait.”

As Estelle folded up her napkin and slipped it into the silver ring, she looked furtively at St. Elmo, who, holding up a bunch of purple grapes, said in an indifferent tone to his mother: 

“The vineyards of Axarquia show nothing more perfect.  This cluster might challenge comparison with those from which Red Hermitage is made, and the seeds of which are said to have been brought from Schiraz.  Even on the sunny slopes of Cyprus and Naxos I found no finer grapes than these.  A propos!  I want a basketful this afternoon.  Henry, tell old Simon to gather them immediately.”