“Shall I throw your tribute for you?”

She hastily caught the bouquet from his fingers, and replied: 

“Oh! no, thank you!  I am so selfish, I can not spare it.”

“I shall call at ten o’clock to-morrow to deliver your letter,” said Gordon, as he stood hat in hand.

“I shall be glad to see you, Mr. Leigh.”

He shook hands with her and with Mr. Manning, to whom she had introduced him, and left the box.

Sir Roger Percival gave his arm to Mrs. Andrews, and the editor drew Edna’s cloak over her shoulders, took her hand and led her down the steps.

As her little gloved fingers rested in his, the feeling of awe and restraint melted away, and looking into his face she said: 

“Mr. Manning, I do not think you will ever know half how much I thank you for all your kindness to an unknown authorling.  I have enjoyed the music very much indeed.  How is Lila to-night?”

A slight tremor crossed his lips; the petrified hawthorn was quivering into life.

“She is quite well, thank you.  Pray, what do you know about her?  I was not aware that I had ever mentioned her name in your presence.”

“My pupil, Felix, is her most devoted knight, and I see her almost every afternoon when I go with the children to Central Park.”

They reached the carriage where the Englishman stood talking to Mrs. Andrews, and when Mr. Manning had handed Edna in, he turned and said something to Sir Roger, who laughed lightly and walked away.

During the drive Mrs. Andrews talked volubly of the foreigner’s ease and elegance and fastidious musical taste, and Mr. Manning listened courteously and bowed coldly in reply.  When they reached home she invited him to dinner on the following Thursday, to meet Sir Roger Percival.

As the editor bade them good-night he said to Edna: 

“Go to sleep at once; do not sit up to work to-night.”

Did she follow his sage advice?  Ask of the stars that watched her through the long winter night, and the dappled dawn that saw her stooping wearily over her desk.

At the appointed hour on the following morning Mr. Leigh called, and after some desultory remarks he asked, rather abruptly: 

“Has St. Elmo Murray written to you about his last whim?”

“I do not correspond with Mr. Murray.”

“Everybody wonders what droll freak will next seize him.  Reed, the blacksmith, died several months ago and, to the astonishment of our people, Mr. Murray has taken his orphan, Huldah, to Le Bocage; has adopted her I believe; at all events, is educating her.”

Edna’s face grew radiant.

“Oh!  I am glad to hear it!  Poor little Huldah needed a friend, and she could not possibly have fallen into kinder hands than Mr. Murray’s.”

“There certainly exists some diversity of opinion on that subject.  He is rather too grim a guardian, I fancy, for one so young as Huldah Reed.”