The dreary wretchedness, the savage hopelessness of his countenance awed and pained the girl, and after a moment’s silence, and a short struggle with her heart, she extended her hand, saying with evident reluctance:  “Give me the key, I will not betray your trust.”

“Do you promise me solemnly that you will never open that vault, except in accordance with my directions?  Weigh the promise well before you give it.”

“Yes, sir; I promise most solemnly.”

He laid the key in her palm and continued: 

“My mother loves you—­try to make her happy while I am away; and if you succeed, you will be the first person to whom I have ever been indebted.  I have left directions concerning my books and the various articles in my rooms.  Feel no hesitation in examining any that may interest you, and see that the dust does not ruin them.  Good-bye, child; take care of my mother.”

He held out his hand, she gave him hers for an instant only, and he mounted, lifted his cap, and rode away.

Closing the ponderous gate, Edna leaned her face against the iron bars, and watched the lessening form.  Gradually trees intervened, then at a bend in the road she saw him wheel his horse as if to return.  For some moments he remained stationary, looking back, but suddenly disappeared, and, with a sigh of indescribable relief, she retraced her steps to the house.  As she approached the spot where Mrs. Murray still sat, with her face hidden in her handkerchief, the touch of the little key, tightly folded in her palm, brought a painful consciousness of concealment and a tinge of shame to her cheeks; for it seemed in her eyes an insult to her benefactress that the guardianship of the papers should have been withheld from her.

She would have stolen away to her own room to secrete the key; but Mrs. Murray called her, and as she sat down beside her the miserable mother threw her arms around the orphan, and resting her cheek on her head wept bitterly.  Timidly, but very gently and tenderly, the latter strove to comfort her, caressing the white hands that were clasped in almost despairing anguish.

“Dear Mrs. Murray, do not grieve so deeply; he may come back much earlier than you expect.  He will get tired of travelling, and come back to his own beautiful home, and to you, who love him so devotedly.”

“No, no! he will stay away as long as possible.  It is not beautiful to him.  He hates his home and forgets me!  My loneliness, my anxiety are nothing in comparison to his morbid love of change.  I shall never see him again.”

“But he loves you very much, and that will bring him to you.”

“Why do you think so?”

“He pointed to you, a few moments ago, and his face was full of wretchedness when he told me, ’Make my mother happy while I am gone, and you will be the first person to whom I have ever been indebted.’  Do not weep so, dear Mrs. Murray; God can preserve him as well on sea as here at home.”