“Yes, madam, I have promised to spend it with Mr. Hammond.”

“Then you must excuse yourself, for I will not have Gordon disappointed again.”

Too much annoyed to answer, Edna left the room, but paused in the hall and beckoned to Mrs. Murray, who instantly joined her,

“Of course, you will not have prayers to-night, as Mr. Murray has returned?”

“For that very reason I want to have them, to make a public acknowledgment of my gratitude that my son has been restored to me.  Oh! if he would only consent to be present!”

“It is late, and he will probably plead fatigue.”

“Leave that with me, and when I ring the bell, come to the library.”

The orphan went to her room and diligently copied an essay which she intended to submit to Mr. Hammond for criticism on the following day; and as the comparative merits of the Solonian and Lycurgan codes constituted her theme, she soon became absorbed by Grecian politics, and was only reminded of the events of the evening, when the muezzin bell sounded, calling the household to prayer.

She laid down her pen and hurried to the library, whither Mrs. Murray had enticed her son, who was standing before one of the book-cases, looking over the table of contents of a new scientific work.  The servants came in and ranged themselves near the door, and suddenly Mrs. Murray said: 

“You must take my place to-night, Edna; I can not read aloud.”

The orphan looked up appealingly, but an imperative gesture silenced her, and she sat down before the table, bewildered and frightened.  Mr. Murray glanced around the room, and with a look of wrath and scorn threw down the book and turned toward the door; but his mother’s hand seized his—­

“My son, for my sake, do not go!  Out of respect for me, remain the first evening of your return.  For my sake, St. Elmo!”

He frowned, shook off her hands, and strode to the door; then reconsidered the matter, came back, and stood at the fireplace, leaning his elbow on the mantel, looking gloomily at the coals.

Although painfully embarrassed as she took her seat and prepared to conduct the services in his presence, Edna felt a great calm steal over her spirit when she opened the Bible and read her favorite chapter, the fourteenth of St. John.

Her sweet, flexible voice, gradually losing its tremor, rolled soothingly through the room; and when she knelt and repeated the prayer selected for the occasion—­a prayer of thanks for the safe return of a traveller to the haven of home—­her tone was full of pathos and an earnestness that strangely stirred the proud heart of the wanderer as he stood there, looking through his fingers at her uplifted face, and listening to the first prayer that had reached his ears for nearly nineteen weary years of sin and scoffing.

When Edna rose from her knees he had left the room, and she heard his swift steps echoing drearily through the rotunda.