She knew now why the keys were given to her, and the fact that Arthur St. Claire trusted her even before his own cousin, left a warm, happy spot in her heart.  Upon second thought this act was not displeasing to Grace herself.  It evinced a preference in Arthur for Edith Hastings, and on her way home she busied herself in building castles of the future, when Edith, as the wife of Arthur and mistress of Grassy Spring, would cease to be her rival.  As Grace had said, Mrs. Johnson and Rose, her daughter, were dismissed, the house was shut up, the owner gone, the keys in Edith’s possession, and for many days the leaves of crimson and of gold drifted down upon the walks and lay piled beneath the windows and upon the marble steps, where they rested undisturbed, save when the evening wind whirled them in fantastic circles and then sent them back again to their first lodging place.

Occasionally Edith, on her spirited Bedouin, rode slowly by, glancing at the grounds and garden, where so many flowers were blossoming for naught, and then gazing curiously at the latticed windows looking out toward Collingwood.  She knew which ones they were, though the blinds were closed tightly over them, and she wondered if the mystery of that room would ever be revealed to her.  Once, as she was riding by, she saw a stranger standing upon the steps of the front door and pulling vehemently at the silver knob which brought him no response.  Reining Bedouin at the gate the waited until the gentleman, tired of ringing, came slowly down the walk, apparently absorbed in some perplexing thought.  He did not see her until almost upon her, when, bowing politely, he said, “I beg your pardon, Miss, can you tell me where Mr. St. Claire’s to be found?”

“He has gone to Florida,” she answered, “and will not return for some weeks.”

“Gone to Florida, and I not know it!  That’s very queer,” and the stranger bit his lip with vexation.

“Did you wish particularly to see him?” asked Edith, and he replied,

“Yes, a friend lies very sick in the—­” he paused a moment, looked searchingly at Edith, and added, “in Worcester.  We can do nothing with her, and I have come for him.”

Edith thought of Nina, thought of the Den, thought of everything, except that the man seemed waiting for her to speak.

“Won’t be home for some weeks,” he said at last, as she continued silent, “And you don’t know where a letter would reach him?”

“No, sir, but I will deliver any message from you as soon as he returns.”

The stranger scrutinized her closely a second time ere he replied,

“Tell him Griswold has been here and wishes him to come to Worcester at once.”

Edith was mortal, nay more, was a genuine descendant of mother Eve, and with a feeling akin to what that fair matron must have felt when she wondered how those apples did taste, she said to the man, “Who shall I say is sick?”