Then a merry laugh burst from the lips of the wayward girl as she met Mrs. Atherton’s anxious glance, and running to the piano she dashed off most inspiriting waltz, playing so rapidly that the bright bloom came back, settling in a small round spot upon her cheek, and making her surpassingly beautiful even to Grace, whose great weakness was an unwillingness to admit that another’s charms were superior to her own.  When the waltz was ended Edith’s mood had changed, and turning to Grace she nestled closely to her, and twining one of the silken curls around her fingers, said coaxingly,

“You think me a naughty child no doubt, but you do not understand me.  I certainly do love Richard more than you suppose; and Grace, I want you to help me, to encourage me.  Engaged girls always need it, I guess, and Victor is so mean, he says all sorts of hateful things about my marrying my father, and all that.  Perhaps the village people will do so, too, and if they do, you’ll stand up for me, won’t you?  You’ll tell them how much I owe him—­how much I love him, and, Grace,” Edith’s voice was very low now, and sad, “and when you write to Arthur don’t repeat the hateful things I said before, but tell him I’m engaged; that I’m the Swedish baby; that I never shall forget him quite; and that I love Richard very much.”

Oh, how soft and plaintive was the expression of the dark eyes now, as Edith ceased to speak, and pressed the hand which warmly pressed hers back, for Grace’s womanly nature was aroused by this appeal, and she resolved to fulfill the trust reposed in her by Edith.  Instead of hedging her way with obstacles she would help her, if possible; would encourage her to love the helpless blind man, whose step was heard In the hall.  He was coming to rejoin them, and instantly into Edith’s eyes there flashed a startled, shrinking look, such as the recreant slave may be supposed to wear when he hears his master’s step.  Grace knew the feeling which prompted that look full well.  She had felt it many a time, in an intensified degree, stealing over her at the coming of one whose snowy looks and gouty limbs had mingled many a year with the dust of Shannondale, and on her lips the words were trembling, “This great sacrifice must not be,” when Edith sprang up, and running out into the hall, met Richard as be came.

Leading him into the parlor, and seating him upon the sofa, she aat beside him, holding his hand in hers, as if she thus would defy her destiny, or, at the least, meet it bravely.  Had Grace known of Victor’s new name for Edith she too would have called her “Reed that bends,” and as it was she thought her a most incomprehensible girl, whom no one could fathom, and not caring to tarry longer, soon took her leave, and the lovers were alone.

Arrived at home, Grace opened her writing desk and commenced a letter, which started next day for Florida, carrying to Arthur St. Claire news which made his brain reel and grow giddy with pain, while his probed heart throbbed, and quivered, and bled with a fresh agony, as on his knees by Nina’s pillow he prayed, not that the cup of bitterness might pass from him—­he was willing now to quaff that to its very dregs, but that Edith might be happy with the husband she had chosen, and that he, the desolate, weary Arthur might not faint beneath this added burden.