“I shall never love them or violets again.  Take them away, Hattie, out of my sight; put them on your brother’s grave.  They smell of death.”

From that day she made a vigorous effort to rouse herself, and the boy’s name never passed her lips; though she spent many hours over a small manuscript which she found among his books, directed to her for revision.  “Tales for Little Cripples,” was the title he had given it, and she was surprised at the beauty and pathos of many of the sentences.  She carefully revised and rewrote it, adding a brief sketch of the young writer, and gave it to his mother.

About a month after Felix’s death the governess seemed to have recovered her physical strength, and Mrs. Andrews announced her intention of going to Germany.  Mr. Manning had engagements that called him to France, and, on the last day of their stay at Genoa, he came as usual to spend the evening with Edna.

A large budget of letters and papers had arrived from America; and when he gave her the package containing her share, she glanced over the directions, threw them unopened into a heap on the table, and continued the conversation in which she was engaged, concerning the architecture of the churches in Genoa.

Mrs. Andrews had gone to the vault where the body of her son had been temporarily placed, and Edna was alone with the editor.

“You ought to look into your papers; they contain very gratifying intelligence for you.  Your last book has gone through ten editions, and your praises are chanted all over your native land.  Surely, if ever a woman had adulation enough to render her perfectly happy and pardonably proud, you are the fortunate individual.  Already your numerous readers are inquiring when you will give them another book.”

She leaned her head back against her chair, and the little hands caressed each other as they rested on her knee, while her countenance was eloquent with humble gratitude for the success that God had permitted to crown her efforts; but she was silent.

“Do you intend to write a book of travels, embracing the incidents that have marked your tour?  I see the public expect it.”

“No, sir.  It seems now a mere matter of course that all scribblers who come to Europe, should afflict the reading world with an account of what they saw or failed to see.  So many noble books have been already published, thoroughly describing this continent, that I have not the temerity, the presumption to attempt to retouch the grand old word-pictures.  At present, I expect to write nothing.  I want to study some subjects that greatly interest me, and I shall try to inform and improve myself, and keep silent until I see some phase of truth neglected, or some new aspect of error threatening mischief in society.  Indeed, I have great cause for gratitude in my literary career.  At the beginning I felt apprehensive that I was destined to sit always under the left hand of fortune, whom Michael Angelo designed