The orphan’s voice was firm and quiet; and as she handed the French paper to St. Elmo, she turned her eyes full on his face.

“Have you read it already?” he asked, giving her one of his steely, probing glances.

“No, sir, I did not open it, as I take little interest in continental politics.  Gertrude, will you go or stay?”

Mr. Murray put out his hand, took Gertrude’s, and said: 

“Good-bye till to-morrow.  Do not forget your promise.”

Turning away, he went in the direction of the stables.

In silence Edna walked on to the house, and presently Gertrude’s soft fingers grasped hers.

“Edna, I hope you are not mad with me.  Do you really think it is wrong for me to talk to Mr. Murray, and to like him so much?”

“Gertrude, you must judge for yourself concerning the propriety of your conduct.  I shall not presume to advise you; but the fact that you are unwilling to acquaint your mother with your course ought to make you look closely at your own heart.  When a girl is afraid to trust her mother, I should think there were grounds for uneasiness.”

They had reached the steps, and Mrs. Powell came out to meet them.

“Where have you two runaways been?  I have waited a half hour for you.  Estelle, do come and see me.  It is very dreary at the parsonage, and your visits are cheering and precious.  Come, Gertrude.”

When Gertrude kissed her friend, she whispered: 

“Don’t be mad with me, dearie.  I will remember what you said, and talk to mamma this very evening.”

Edna saw mother and daughter descend the long avenue and then running up to her room, she tied on her hat and walked rapidly across the park in an opposite direction.

About a mile and a half from Le Bocage, on a winding and unfrequented road leading to a sawmill, stood a small log-house containing only two rooms.  The yard was neglected, full of rank weeds, and the gate was falling from its rusty hinges.

Edna walked up the decaying steps, and without pausing to knock, entered one of the comfortless-looking rooms.

On a cot in one corner lay an elderly man in the last stage of consumption, and by his side, busily engaged in knitting, sat a child about ten years old, whose pretty white face wore that touching look of patient placidity peculiar to the blind.  Huldah Reed had never seen the light, but a marvellous change came over her countenance when Edna’s light step and clear, sweet voice fell on her ear.

“Huldah, how is your father to-day?”

“Not as well as he was yesterday; but he is asleep now, and will be better when he wakes.”

“Has the doctor been here to-day?”

“No, he has not been here since Sunday.”

Edna stood for a while watching the labored breathing of the sleeper, and, putting her hand on Huldah’s head, she whispered: 

“Do you want me to read to you this evening?  It is late, but I shall have time for a short chapter.”