Here followed an earnest expostulation from Mrs. Murray, only a few words of which were audible, and once more the deep, strong, bitter tones rejoined: 

“Interfere!  Pardon me, I am only too happy to stand aloof and watch the little wretch play out her game.  Most certainly it is your own affair, but you will permit me to be amused, will you not?  And with your accustomed suavity forgive me, if I chance inadvertently to whisper above my breath, ‘Le jeu n’en vaut pas la chandelle?’ What the deuce do you suppose I care about her ‘faith?’ She may run through the whole catalogue from the mustard-seed size up, as far as I am concerned, and you may make yourself easy on the score of my ‘contaminating’ the sanctified vagrant!”

“St. Elmo! my son! promise me that you will not scoff and sneer at her religion; at least in her presence,” pleaded the mother.

A ringing, mirthless laugh was the only reply that reached the girl, as she put her fingers in her ears and hid her face on the window-sill.

It was no longer possible to doubt the identity of the stranger; the initials on the fly-leaf meant St. Elmo Murray; and she knew that in the son of her friend and protectress, she had found the owner of her Dante and the man who had cursed her grandfather for his tardiness.  If she had only known this one hour earlier, she would have declined the offer, which once accepted, she knew not how to reject, without acquainting Mrs. Murray with the fact that she had overheard the conversation; and yet she could not endure the prospect of living under the same roof with a man whom she loathed and feared.  The memory of the blacksmith’s aversion of this stranger intensified her own; and as she pondered in shame and indignation the scornful and opprobrious epithets which he had bestowed on herself, she muttered through her set teeth: 

“Yes, Grandy! he is cruel and wicked; and I never can bear to look at or speak to him!  How dared he curse my dear, dear, good grandpa!  How can I ever be respectful to him, when he is not even respectful to his own mother!  Oh!  I wish I had never come here!  I shall always hate him!” At this juncture, Hagar entered, and lifted her back to her couch; and, remarking the agitation of her manner, the nurse said gravely, as she put her fingers on the girl’s pulse: 

“What has flushed you so?  Your face is hot; you have tired yourself sitting up too long.  Did a gentleman come into the room a while ago?”

“Yes, Mrs. Murray’s son.”

“Did Miss Ellen—­that is, my mistress—­tell you that you were to live here, and get your education?”

“Yes, she offered to take care of me for a few years.”

“Well, I am glad it is fixed, so—­you can stay; for you can be a great comfort to Miss Ellen, if you try to please her.”

She paused, and busied herself about the room, and remembering Mrs. Murray’s injunction that she should discourage conversation on the part of the servants, Edna turned her face to the wall and shut her eyes.  But for once Hagar’s habitual silence and non-committalism were laid aside; and, stooping over the couch, she said hurriedly: