“Miggie—­Miggie,” she repeated.  “I have heard that name before.  It must have belonged to some one in the Asylum.”

A confused murmur as if of expostulation and remonstrance was now heard—­the childish hand disappeared and scarcely knowing what she was about, Edith stepped into the hall and advanced into the library, where she sat down to wait for Arthur.  It was not long ere he appeared, locking the door as he came in and thus cutting off all communication between that room and the stairway leading to the Den.  Matters were, in Edith’s estimation, assuming a serious aspect, and remembering how pleadingly the name “Miggie” had been uttered, she half-resolved to demand of Arthur the immediate release of the helpless creature thus held in durance vile.  But he looked so unhappy, so hopelessly wretched that her sympathy was soon enlisted for him rather than his fair captive.  Still she would try him a little and when they were fairly at work she said to him jestingly,

“I heard it hinted that you would bring home a wife, but I do not see her.  Where is she, pray?”

Arthur uttered no sound save a stifled moan, and when Edith dared to steal a look at him she saw that his brown hair was moist with perspiration, which stood also in drops about his lips.

“Mr. St. Claire,” she said, throwing down her pencil and leaning back in her chair, “I can endure this no longer.  What is the matter?  Tell me.  You have some great mental sorrow, I know, and I long to share it with you—­may I?  Who have you up stairs and why this mystery concerning her?”

She laid her hand upon his arm, and looked imploringly into the face, which turned away from her, as if afraid to meet her truthful glance.  Once he thought to tell her all, but when he remembered how beautiful she was, how much he loved her, and how dear her society was to him, he refrained, for he vainly fancied that a confession would drive her from him forever.  He did not know Edith Hastings; he had not yet fathomed the depths of her womanly nature, and he could not guess how tenderly, even while her own heart was breaking, she would have soothed his grief and been like an angel of mercy to the innocent cause of all his woe.

“I dare not tell you,” he said.  “You would hate me if I did, and that I could not endure.  It may not be pleasant for you to come here any more, and perhaps you had better not.”

For a moment Edith sat motionless.  She had not expected this from Arthur, and it roused within her a feeling of resentment.

“And so you only sent for me to give me my dismissal,” she said, in a cold, icy tone.  “Be it as you like.  I draw tolerably well, you say.  I have no doubt I can get along alone.  Send your bill at once to Mr. Harrington.  He does not like to be in debt.”