“And sleep with a lunatic,—­is it quite safe?” he asked.

“Perfectly so,” returned Arthur, adding that the house was large enough, and Edith could act her own pleasure with regard to sleeping apartments.

“Then it’s settled that I may go,” chimed in Edith, quite as much delighted at the prospect of a long evening with Arthur, as with the idea of seeing more of Nina.

She knew she was leaving Richard very lonely, but she promised to be home early on the morrow, and bidding good-bye, followed Arthur and Nina to the carriage.

Nina was delighted to have Edith with her, and after their arrival at Grassy Spring, danced and skipped about the house like a gay butterfly, pausing every few moments to wind her arms around the neck of her guest, whom she kissed repeatedly, calling her always Miggie, and telling her how much she loved her.

“Don’t you want to see you as you used to be?” she asked suddenly.  “If you do, come up,—­come to my room.  She may?” and she turned toward Arthur, who answered, “certainly, I will go myself,” and the three soon stood at the door of the den.

It was Edith’s first visit there, and a feeling of awe came over her as she crossed the threshold of the mysterious room.  Then a cry of joyful surprise burst from her lips as she saw how pleasant it was in there, and how tastefully the chamber was fitted up.  Not another apartment in the house could compare with it, and Edith felt that she could be happy there all her life, were it not for the iron lattice, which gave it somewhat the appearance of a prison.

“Here you are,” cried Nina, dragging her across the floor to the portrait of the little child which had so interested her during Arthur’s absence.  “This is she—­this is you,—­this is Miggie,” and Nina jumped up and down, while Edith gazed again upon the sweet baby face she had once seen in the drawing-room.

“There is a slight resemblance between you,” said Arthur, glancing from one to the other, “Had she lived, her eyes must have been like yours; but look, this was Nina’s father.”

Edith did not answer him.  Indeed, she scarcely knew what he was saying, for a nameless fascination chained her to the spot, a feeling as if she were beholding her other self, as if she had leaped backward many years, and was seated again upon the nursery floor like the child before her.  Like gleams of lightning, confused memories of the past came rushing over her only to pass away, leaving her in deeper darkness.  One thought, however, like a blinding flash caused her brain to reel, while she grasped Arthur’s arm, exclaiming, “Are you sure the baby died—­sure she was buried with her mother?”

“Yes, perfectly sure,” was Arthur’s reply, and with the sensation of disappointment, Edith turned at last from Miggie to the contemplation of the father; the Mr. Bernard whom she was not greatly disposed to like.

He was a portly, handsome man, but his face showed traces of early debauchery and later dissipation.  Still, Edith was far more interested in him than in the portrait of Nina’s mother, the light-haired, blue-eyed woman, so much like the daughter that the one could easily be recognized from it a resemblance to the other.