“Who was that?” interrupted Grace, her color changing visibly at the child’s reverent reply.

“God was with me, and I wish he hadn’t let me touch it, but he did.  It lay on the writing desk and I took it to the window to see it.  Oh, isn’t she jolly?” and as she recalled the beautiful features, the hard expression left her own, and she went on, “I couldn’t take my eyes from her; they would stay there, and I was almost going to speak her name, when I heard you coming, and ran away.  I meant to bring it back, Mr. Arthur,” and she turned appealingly to him.  “I certainly did, and you believe me, don’t you?  I never told a lie in my life.”

Ere Arthur could reply, Grace chimed in.

“Believe you?  Of course not.  You stole the picture and intended to keep it.  I cannot have you longer in my family, for nothing is safe.  I shall send you back at once.”

There was a look in the large eyes which turned so hopelessly from Arthur to Grace, and from Grace back to Arthur, like that the hunted deer wears when hotly pursued in the chase.  The white lips moved but uttered no sound and the fingers closed convulsively around the golden locket which Arthur advanced to take away.

“Let me see her once more,” she said.

He could not refuse her request, and touching the spring he held it up before her.

“Pretty lady,” she whispered, “sweet lady, whose name I most know, speak, and tell Mr. Arthur that I didn’t do it.  I surely didn’t.”

This constant appeal to Arthur, and total disregard of herself, did not increase Mrs. Atherton’s amiability, and taking Edith by the shoulder she attempted to lead her from the room.

At the door Edith stopped, and said imploringly to Arthur,

“Do you think I stole it?”

He shook his head, a movement unobserved by Grace, but fraught with so much happiness for the little girl.  She did not heed Grace’s reproaches now, nor care if she was banished to her own room for the remainder of the day.  Arthur believed her innocent; Uncle Tom believed her innocent, and Rachel believed her innocent, which last fact was proved by the generous piece of custard pie hoisted to her window in a small tin pail, said pail being poised upon the prongs of a long pitch-fork.  The act of thoughtful kindness touched a tender chord in Edith’s heart, and the pie choked her badly, but she managed to eat it all save the crust, which she tossed into the grass, laughing to see how near it came to hitting Mrs. Atherton, who looked around to discover whence it could possibly have come.

That night, just before dark, Grace entered Edith’s room, and told her that as Mr. St. Claire, who left them on the morrow, had business in New York, and was going directly there, she had decided to send her with him to the Asylum.  “He will take a letter from me,” she continued, “telling them why you are sent back, and I greatly fear it will be long ere you find as good a home as this has been to you.”