“But, my son, the carriage is close and—­”

“I can not permit you to expose yourself so unnecessarily, and, in short, I will not take you, so there is an end of it.  Of course I can stand the weather, and I will go over with Edna, and put her under the care of some one on the train.  As soon as possible send her down to the carriage.  I shall order her trunks strapped on.”

He was very pale and stern, and his voice rang coldly clear as he turned and went downstairs.

The parting was very painful, and Mrs. Murray followed the orphan to the front door.

“St. Elmo, I wish you would let me go.  I do not mind the rain.”

“Impossible.  You know I have an unconquerable horror of scenes, and I do not at all fancy witnessing one that threatens to last until the train leaves.  Go upstairs and cry yourself to sleep in ten minutes; that will be much more sensible.  Come, Edna, are you ready?”

The orphan was folded in a last embrace, and Mr. Murray held out his hand, drew her from his mother’s arms, and taking his seat beside her in the carriage, ordered the coachman to drive on.

The night was very dark, the wind sobbed down the avenue, and the rain fell in such torrents that as Edna leaned out for a last look at the stately mansion, which she had learned to love so well, she could only discern the outline of the bronze monsters by the glimmer of the light burning in the hall.  She shrank far back in one corner, and her fingers clutched each other convulsively; but when they had passed through the gate and entered the main road Mr. Murray’s hand was laid on hers—­the cold fingers were unlocked gently but firmly, and raised to his lips.

She made an effort to withdraw them, but found it useless, and the trial which she had fancied was at end seemed only beginning.

“Edna, this is the last time I shall ever speak to you of myself; the last time I shall ever allude to all that has passed.  It is entirely useless for one to ask you to reconsider?  If you have no pity for me, have some mercy on yourself.  You can not know how I dread the thought of your leaving me, and being roughly handled by a cold, selfish, ruthless world.  Oh! it maddens me when I think of your giving your precious life, which would so glorify my home and gladden my desolate heart, to a public, who will trample upon you if possible, and, if it can not entirely crush you, will only value you as you deserve, when, with ruined health and withered hopes, you sink into the early grave malice and envy will have dug for you.  Already your dear face has grown pale, and your eyes have a restless, troubled look, and shadows are gathering about your young, pure, fresh spirit.  My darling, you are not strong enough to wrestle with the world; you will be trodden down by the masses in this conflict, upon which you enter so eagerly.  Do you not know that ‘literati’ means literally the branded?  The lettered slave!