His fondness for history, and for all that involved theories of government, led his governess to hope that at some future day he might recruit the depleted ranks of statesmen—­that he might reflect lustre upon his country; and with this trust spurring her ever one, she became more and more absorbed in her schemes for developing his intellect and sanctifying his heart.  People wondered how the lovely woman, whom society flattered and feted, could voluntarily shut herself up in a schoolroom, and few understood the sympathy which bound her so firmly to the broad-browed, sallow little cripple.

One December day, several months after their return from the seaside, Edna and Felix sat in the library.  The boy had just completed Prescott’s “Philip II.,” and the governess had promised to read to him Schiller’s “Don Carlos” and Goethe’s “Egmont,” in order to impress upon his memory the great actors of the Netherland revolution.  She took up the copy of “Don Carlos,” and crossing his arms on the top of his crutches, as was his habit, the pupil fixed his eyes on her face.

The reading had continued probably a half-hour, when Felix heard a whisper at the door, and, looking over his shoulder, saw a stranger standing on the threshold.  He rose; the movement attracted the attention of the governess, and, as she looked up, a cry of joy rang through the room.  She dropped the book and sprang forward with open arms.

“Oh, Mrs. Murray! dear friend!”

For some moments they stood locked in a warm embrace, and as Felix limped out of the room he heard his governess sobbing.

Mrs. Murray held the girl at arm’s length, and as she looked at the wan, thin face, she exclaimed: 

“My poor Edna! my dear little girl! why did not you tell me you were ill?  You are a mere ghost of your former self.  My child, why did you not come home long ago?  I should have been here a month earlier, but was detained by Estelle’s marriage.”

Edna looked vacantly at her benefactress, and her lips whitened as she asked: 

“Did you say Estelle—­was married?”

“Yes, my dear.  She is now in New York with her husband.  They are going to Paris—­”

“She married your—­” The head fell forward on Mrs. Murray’s bosom, and as in a dream she heard the answer: 

“Estelle married that young Frenchman, Victor De Sanssure, whom she met in Europe.  Edna, what is the matter?  My child!”

She found that she could not rouse her, and in great alarm called for assistance.

Mrs. Andrews promptly resorted to the remedies advised by Dr. Howell; but it was long before Edna fully recovered, and then she lay with her eyes closed, and her hands clasped across her forehead.

Mrs. Murray sat beside the sofa weeping silently, while Mrs. Andrews briefly acquainted her with the circumstances attending former attacks.  When the latter was summoned from the room and all was quiet, Edna looked up at Mrs. Murray, and tears rolled over her cheeks as she said: