“Certainly not to our partial eyes.  And yet without you, my child, it does not seem like home.  It is the only home where you will ever be happy.”

“Yes, I know it; but it cannot be mine.  Mrs. Murray, I want to see my own little room.”

“Certainly; you know the way.  I will join you there presently.  Nobody has occupied it since you left, for I feel toward your room as I once felt toward the empty cradle of my dead child.”

Edna went up-stairs alone and closed the door of the apartment she had so long called hers, and looked with childish pleasure and affection at the rosewood furniture.

Turning to the desk where she had written much that the world now praised and loved, she saw a vase containing a superb bouquet, with a card attached by a strip of ribbon.  The hothouse flowers were arranged with exquisite taste, and the orphan’s cheeks glowed suddenly as she recognized Mr. Murray’s handwriting on the card:  “For Edna Earl.”  When she took up the bouquet a small envelope similarly addressed, dropped out.

For some minutes she stood irresolute, fearing to trust herself with the contents; then she drew a chair to the desk, sat down, and broke the seal: 

“My darling:  Will you not permit me to see you before you leave the parsonage?  Knowing the peculiar circumstances that brought you back, I cannot take advantage of them and thrust myself into your presence without your consent.  I have left home to-day, because I felt assured that, much as you might desire to see ‘Le Bocage,’ you would never come here while there was a possibility of meeting me.  You, who know something of my wayward, sinful, impatient temper, can perhaps imagine what I suffer, when I am told that your health is wretched, that you are in the next room, and yet, that I must not, shall not see you—­my own Edna!  Do you wonder that I almost grow desperate at the thought that only a wall—­a door—­separates me from you, whom I love better than my life?  Oh, my darling!  Allow me one more interview!  Do not make my punishment heavier than I can bear.  It is hard—­it is bitter enough to know that you can not, or will not trust me; at least let me see your dear face again.  Grant me one hour—­it may be the last we shall ever spend together in this world.  “Your own, st. Elmo.”

“Ah, my God! pity me!  Why—­oh! why is it that I am tantalized with glimpses of a great joy never to be mine in this life!  Why, in struggling to do my duty, am I brought continually to the very gate of the only Eden I am ever to find in this world, and yet can never surprise the watching Angel of Wrath, and have to stand shivering outside, and see my Eden only by the flashing of the sword that bars my entrance?”

Looking at the handwriting so different from any other which she had ever examined, her thoughts were irresistibly carried back to that morning when, at the shop, she saw this handwriting for the first time on the blank leaf of the Dante; and she recalled the shuddering aversion with which her grandfather had glanced at it, and advised her to commit it to the flames of the forge.