“How old are you, Edna?”

“Almost thirteen.”

“Had you any luggage on the train?”

“I had a small box of clothes.”

“I will send a servant for it.”  She rang the bell as she spoke.

“When do you think I shall be able to walk about?”

“Probably not for many weeks.  If you need or wish anything you must not hesitate to ask for it.  A servant will sit here, and you have only to tell her what you want.”

“You are very kind, ma’am, and I thank you very much—­” She paused, and her eyes filled with tears.

Mrs. Murray looked at her and said gravely: 

“What is the matter, child?”

“I am only sorry I was so ungrateful and wicked this morning.”

“How so?”

“Oh! everything that I love dies; and when I lay there on the grass, unable to move, among strangers who knew and cared nothing about me, I was wicked, and would not try to pray, and thought God wanted to make me suffer all my life, and I wished that I had been killed instead of that dear little baby, who had a father and mother to kiss and love it.  It was all wrong to feel so, but I was so wretched.  And then God raised up friends even among strangers, and shows me I am not forsaken if I am desolate.  I begin to think He took everybody away from me, that I might see how He could take care of me without them.  I know ‘He doeth all things well,’ but I feel it now; and I am so sorry I could not trust Him without seeing it.”

Edna wiped away her tears, and Mrs. Murray’s voice faltered slightly as she said: 

“You are a good little girl, I have no doubt.  Who taught you to be so religious?”

“Grandpa.”

“How long since you lost him?”

“Four months.”

“Can you read?”

“Oh! yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I shall send you a Bible, and you must make yourself as contented as possible.  I shall take good care of you.”

As the hostess left the room a staid-looking, elderly negro woman took a seat at the window and sewed silently, now and then glancing toward the bed.  Exhausted with pain and fatigue, Edna slept again, and it was night when she opened her eyes and found Dr. Rodney and Mrs. Murray at her pillow.  The kind surgeon talked pleasantly for some time, and, after giving ample instructions, took his leave, exhorting his patient to keep up her fortitude and all would soon be well.  So passed the first day of her sojourn under the hospitable roof which appeared so fortuitously to shelter her; and the child thanked God fervently for the kind hands into which she had fallen.  Day after day wore wearily away, and at the end of a fortnight, though much prostrated by fever and suffering, she was propped up in bed by pillows, while Hagar, the servant, combed and plaited the long, thick, matted hair.  Mrs. Murray came often to the room, but her visits were short, and though invariably kind and considerate, Edna felt an involuntary awe of her,