The three faces contrasted vividly in the ruddy glow of the fire.  That of the little girl, round, rosy, red-lipped, dimpled, merry-eyed; the aged pastor’s wrinkled cheeks and furrowed brow and streaming silver beard; and the carved-ivory features of the governess, borrowing no color from the soft folds of her rich merino dress.  As daylight ebbed, the ripple danced up to the ceiling and vanished, like the pricked bubble of a human hope; the mocking-bird hushed his vesper-hymn; and Edna closed the book and replaced it on the shelf.

Huldah tied on her scarlet-lined hood, kissed her friends good-bye, and went back to Le Bocage; and the old man and the orphan sat looking at the grotesque flicker of the flames on the burnished andirons.

“Edna, are you tired, or can you sing some for me?”

“Reading aloud rarely fatigues me.  What shall I sing?”

“That solemn, weird thing in the ‘Prophet,’ which suits your voice so well.”

She sang ‘Ah, mon fils!’ and then, without waiting for the request which she knew would follow, gave him some of his favorite Scotch songs.

As the last sweet strains of “Mary of Argyle” echoed through the study, the pastor shut his eyes, and memory flew back to the early years when his own wife Mary had sung those words in that room, and his dead darlings clustered eagerly around the piano to listen to their mother’s music.  Five fair-browed, innocent young faces circling about the idolized wife, and baby Annie nestling in her cradle beside the hearth, playing with her waxen fingers and crowing softly.  Death had stolen his household jewels; but recollection robbed the grave, and music’s magic touch unsealed “memory’s golden urn.”

  “Oh! death in life, the days that are no more!”

Edna thought he had fallen asleep, he was so still, his face was so placid; and she came softly back to her chair and looked at the ruby temples and towers, the glittering domes and ash-gray ruined arcades built by the oak coals.

A month had elapsed since her arrival at the parsonage, and during that short period Mr. Hammond had rallied and recovered his strength so unexpectedly that hopes were entertained of his entire restoration; and he spoke confidently of being able to reenter his pulpit on Easter Sunday.

The society of his favorite pupil seemed to render him completely happy, and his countenance shone in the blessed light that gladdened his heart.  After a long, dark, stormy day, the sun of his life was preparing to set in cloudless peace and glory.

Into all of Edna’s literary schemes he entered eagerly.  She read to him the Ms. of her new book as far as it was written, and was gratified by his perfect satisfaction with the style, plot, and aim.