Edna was weary of battling with precious memories of that reckless, fascinating cynic whom, without trusting, she had learned to love; and she thought that, perhaps, if she were the wife of Mr. Manning, whom without loving she fully trusted, it would help her to forget St. Elmo.

She did not deceive herself; she knew that, despite her struggles and stern interdicts, she loved him as she could never hope to love any one else.  Impatiently she said to herself: 

“Mr. Murray is as old as Mr. Manning, and in the estimation of the public is his inferior.  Oh! why can not my weak, wayward heart follow my strong, clear-eyed judgment?  I would give ten years of my life to love Mr. Manning as I love—­”

She compared a swarthy, electrical face, scowling and often repulsively harsh, with one cloudless and noble, over which brooded a solemn and perpetual peace; and she almost groaned aloud in her chagrin and self-contempt, as she thought, “Surely, if ever a woman was infatuated—­possessed by an evil spirit—­I certainly am.”

In attempting to institute a parallel between the two men, one seemed serene, majestic, and pure as the vast snowdome of Oraefa, glittering in the chill light of midsummer-midnight suns; the other fiery, thunderous, destructive as Izalco—­one moment crowned with flames and lava-lashed—­the next wrapped in gloom and dust and ashes.

While she sat there wrestling as she had never done before, even on that day of trial in the church, memory, as if leagued with Satan, brought up the image of Mr. Murray as he stood pleading for himself, for his future.  She heard ish, querulous, and it was after midnight when she laid her head on her pillow.  The milkmen in their noisy carts were clattering along the streets next morning, before her heavy eyelids closed, and she fell into a brief, troubled slumber; over which flitted a Fata Morgana of dreams, where the central figure was always that tall one whom she had seen last standing at the railroad station with the rain dripping over him. single all these years I would ultimately marry a woman for whom I had no affection?  You spoke last week of the mirror of John Galeazzo Visconte, which showed his beloved Correggia her own image; and though I am a proud and reticent man, I beg you to believe that could you look into my heart you would find it such a mirror.  Permit me to ask whether you intend to accept the love which I have reason to believe Mr. Murray has offered you?”

“Mr. Manning, I never expect to marry any one, for I know I shall never meet your superior, and yet I can not accept your most flattering offer.  You fill all my requirements of noble, Christian manhood; but after to-day this subject must not be alluded to.”

“Are you not too hasty?  Will you not take more time for reflection?  Is your decision mature and final?”

“Yes, Mr. Manning—­final, unchangeable.  But do not throw me from you!  I am very, very lonely, and you surely will not forsake me?”