“Come to the window and take a seat.”

He pointed to the sofa; but she shook her head, and said quickly: 

“I have something which belongs to you, Mr. Murray, which I think you must value very much, and therefore I wanted to see it safe in your own hands.”

Without raising her eyes she held the book toward him.

“What is it?”

He took it mechanically, and with his gaze fixed on the girl’s face; but as she made no reply, he glanced down at it, and his stern, swarthy face lighted up joyfully.

“Is it possible? my Dante! my lost Dante!  The copy that has travelled round the world in my pocket, and that I lost a year ago, somewhere in the mountains of Tennessee!  Girl, where did you get it?”

“I found it where you left it—­on the grass near a blacksmith’s shop.”

“A blacksmith’s shop! where?”

“Near Chattanooga.  Don’t you remember the sign, under the horse-shoe, over the door, ’Aaron Hunt’?”

“No; but who was Aaron Hunt?”

For nearly a minute Edna struggled for composure, and looking suddenly up, said falteringly: 

“He was my grandfather—­the only person in the world I had to care for, or to love me—­and—­sir—­”

“Well, go on.”

“You cursed him because your horse fretted, and he could not shoe him in five minutes.”

“Humph!”

There was an awkward silence; St. Elmo Murray bit his lip and scowled, and, recovering her self-control, the orphan added: 

“You put your shawl and book on the ground, and when you started you forgot them.  I called you back and gave you your shawl; but I did not see the book for some time after you rode out of sight.”

“Yes, yes, I remember now about the shawl and the shop.  Strange I did not recognize you before.  But how did you learn that the book was mine?”

“I did not know it was yours until I came here by accident, and heard Mrs. Murray call your name; then I knew that the initials written in the book spelt your name.  And besides, I remembered your figure and your voice.”

Again there was a pause, and her mission ended, Edna turned to go.

“Stop!  Why did you not give it to me when you first came?”

She made no reply, and putting his hand on her shoulder to detain her, he said, more gently than she had ever heard him speak to any one: 

“Was it because you loved my book and disliked to part with it, or was it because you feared to come and speak to a man whom you hate?  Be truthful.”

Still she was silent, and raising her face with his palm, as he had done in the park, he continued in the same low, sweet voice, which she could scarcely believe belonged to him: 

“I am waiting for your answer, and I intend to have it.”

Her large, sad eyes were brimming with precious memories, as she lifted them steadily to meet his, and answered: