Let us now return to Edith, to ascertain how she is faring under the care of her new friends in New York.
On the morning following her arrival Mr. Bryant called at the house of his cousin, Mrs. Morrell, as he had promised, to escort our fair heroine to his office, to meet Mr. Louis Raymond, who had been so anxiously searching for her.
The gentleman had not arrived when they reached the place that was so familiar to Edith, and "Roy," as she was slyly beginning to call him, conducted her directly to his own special sanctum, and seated her in the most comfortable chair, to await the coming of the stranger.
"My sunshine has come back to me," he smilingly remarked, as he bent over her and touched his lips to her forehead in a fond caress. "I have not had one bright day since that morning when I returned from my trip and found your letter, telling me that you were not coming to me any more."
"I did not think, then, that I should ever return," Edith began, gravely. Then she added, in a lighter tone: "But now, that I am here, will you not set me at work?"
"Indeed, no; there shall be no more toiling for you, my darling," returned the young man, with almost passionate tenderness.
Edith shrank a little at his fond words, and a troubled expression leaped into her eyes.
Somehow she could not feel that she had a right to accept his loving attentions and terms of endearment, precious as they were to her, while there was any possibility that another had a claim upon her.
Roy saw the movement, hardly noticeable though it was, and understood the feeling that had prompted it, and he resolved that he would be patient, and refrain from causing her even the slightest annoyance until lie could prove to her that she was free.
A few moments later Mr. Raymond was ushered in, and Roy, after greeting him cordially, presented him to Edith.
It was evident from the earnestness with which he studied her face that the man had more than an ordinary interest in her; while, as he clasped her hand, he appeared to be almost overcome with emotion.
"Pardon me," he said, as he struggled for self-control, "but this meeting with you awakens memories that have proved too much for my composure. You do not resemble your mother, Miss Edith," he concluded, in a tone of regret, as he gazed wistfully into her eyes.
"No?" the fair girl returned, flushing, and feeling half guilty for allowing him to believe that she was Mr. and Mrs. Allandale's own child.
But she had determined to let him tell his story, or at least reveal the nature of his business with her, and then be governed by circumstances regarding her own disclosures.
"If you will kindly excuse me, I will look over my mail while you are conversing with Miss Allandale," Roy remarked, thinking, with true delicacy, that the man might have some communication to make which he would not care to have a third party overhear.
Then, with a bow and a smile, he passed from the room, leaving the two alone.
"I cannot tell you how gratified I am to find you, Miss Edith," Mr. Raymond remarked, as the door closed. "I have met only disappointment of late, and, indeed, throughout most of my life, and I feared that our advertisements might not meet your eye. I was deeply pained upon returning to America, after many years spent abroad, to learn of the misfortunes of your family, while the knowledge of your mother's privations during the last two years of her life—as related to me by Mr. Bryant—has caused me more grief than I can express."
"Yes, mamma's last days were very, very sad," said Edith, while tears dimmed her eyes.
"Tell me about them, please—tell me all about your father's death, and how it happened that you became so reduced financially," said Mr. Raymond.
Then the fair girl, beginning with the loss of her young brothers, related all that had occurred during the two years following, up to the time of her mother's death, while she spoke most touchingly of the patience and fortitude with which the gentle invalid had borne their struggles with poverty and hardship.
More than once her companion was forced to wipe the tears from his cheeks, as he listened to the sad recital, while his eyes lingered affectionately upon the faithful girl who—as he learned from Mr. Bryant—had so heroically tried to provide for the necessities of one whom, it was evident, he had loved with more than ordinary affection.
When she had concluded her story he remained silent for a few moments, as if to fortify himself for the revelations which he had to make; then he remarked:
"Your mother and I, Miss Edith, were 'neighbors and playmates' during our childhood—'schoolmates and friends' for long years afterward, she would have told you; but—ever since I can remember, she was the dearest object the world held for me. This affection grew with my growth until, when I was twenty-one years of age, I asked her to marry me. Her answer was like obscuring the sun at midday, for she told me that she loved another; she had met Albert Allendale, and he had won, apparently without an effort, what I had courted for many years. I could not blame her, for I was but too conscious that he was my superior, both physically and mentally, while the position he offered her was far above anything I could hope to give her—at least, for a long time. But it was a terrible blow to me, and I immediately left the country, feeling that Icould never remain here to witness the happiness that had been denied me. During my exile I heard from them occasionally, through others, and of the ideal life they were leading; but I never once thought of returning to this country until about six months ago, when, my health suddenly failing, I felt that I would at least like to die upon my native soil. You can, perhaps, imagine the shock I experienced, upon arriving in New York, when I learned of Mr. Allendale's misfortunes and death, and also that his wife and only surviving child had been left destitute and were hiding themselves and their poverty in some remote corner, unknown to their former friends. I searched the city for you, and then, discouraged with my lack of success, I put my case into the hands of Mr. Bryant, from whom I learned of the death of your mother and your brave struggles with want and hardships; whereupon I commissioned him to spare no effort or expense to find you; hence the advertisement which, his note to me last evening told me, met your eye in a Boston paper, and brought you hither."
"What a strange, romantic story!" Edith murmured, as Mr. Raymond paused at this point; "and, although it is so very sad, it makes you seem almost like an old friend to know that you once knew and loved mamma."
"Thank you, dear child," returned the man, eagerly, a smile hovering for a moment around his thin lips. "I hardly expected you to greet me thus, but it nevertheless sounds very pleasant to my unaccustomed ears. And now, having told you my story in brief, my wish is to settle upon you, for your dear mother's sake, as well as for your own, a sum that will place you above the necessity of ever laboring for your support in the future. During the last ten years I have greatly prospered in business—indeed, I have accumulated quite a handsome fortune—while, strange to say, I have not a relative in the world to inherit it. The disease which has attacked me warns me that I have not long to live; therefore I wish to arrange everything before my mind and strength fail me. One-half of my property I desire to leave to a certain charitable institution in this city; the remainder is to be yours, my child, and may the blessing of an old and world-weary man go with it."
As he concluded, Edith raised her tearful eyes to find him regarding her with a look of tender earnestness that was very pathetic.
"You are very, very kind, Mr. Raymond," she responded, in tremulous tones, "and I should have been inexpressibly happy if mamma could have been benefited by your generosity; but—I feel that I have no right to receive this bequest from you."
"And why not, pray?" exclaimed her companion, in surprise, a look of keen disappointment sweeping over his face.
"Because—truth compels me to tell you that I am the child of Mr. and Mrs. Allandale only by adoption," said Edith, with quivering lips, for it always pained her to think of her relationship to those whom she had so loved, in this light.
"Can that be possible?" cried Mr. Raymond, in astonishment.
"Yes, sir; it hurts me to speak of it—to even think of if; but it is true," she replied.
Then she proceeded to relate the circumstances of her adoption, as far as she could do so without casting any reflections upon the unhappy young mother who had been so wronged in Rome.
"Of course, I loved papa and mamma just the same as if they had really been my own parents," she remarked, in conclusion, "for I had not a suspicion of the truth until after mamma died. I was always treated exactly as if I had been as near to them as the children who died."
"And have you no knowledge of your own parents?" Mr. Raymond inquired.
"Not the slightest. The only clews I possess are some letters in my mother's handwriting and the name Belle that she signed to him. Strange as it may seem, there is not a surname nor any reference made to thelocality where she lived in her youth, to aid me in my search for her relatives."
"That seems very singular," said the gentleman, musingly.
"It is not only that, but it is also very trying," Edith returned. "Of course, my mother is dead; my father"—this with a proud uplifting of her pretty head—"I have no desire even to look upon his face. I could never own the relationship, even should we meet; but I would like to know something about my mother's family, for, as far as I know, I have—like yourself—not a relative in the world."
"Then pray, Miss Edith, for the sake of that other Edith whom I loved, regard me, while I live, as your stanch, true friend," said Mr. Raymond, earnestly. "The fact that you were the child of Edith Allandale only by adoption will make no difference in my plans for you. To all intents and purposes you were her daughter—she loved you as such—you were faithful and tender toward her until the end; therefore I shall settle the half of my property upon you for your immediate use. I beg that you will feel no delicacy in accepting this provision for your future," he interposed, appealingly, as he remarked her heightened color. "Mr. Bryant had full instructions to carry out my wishes, and the money would have been yours unconditionally, had I never been so happy as to meet you. The only favor I ask of you in return is the privilege of seeing you occasionally, to talk with you of your mother."
The tears rolled thick and fast over the young girl's face at this appeal, for she was deeply touched by the man's tender regard for her interests, and by his yearning to be in sympathy with one who had known so intimately the one love of his life.
"You are very kind," she said, when she could command her voice sufficiently to speak. "I have no words adequate to thank you, and it will be only a delight to me to tell you anything you may wish to know about her who was so dear to us both. I could never tire of talking of mamma. More than this, Itrust you will allow me to be of some comfort to you," she added, earnestly. "When you are lonely or ill I shall be glad to minister to you in any way that I may be able."
"It is very thoughtful of you, Miss Edith, to suggest anything of the kind," Louis Raymond responded, his wan face lighting with pleasure at her words, "and no doubt I shall be glad to avail myself now and then of your kindness; but we will talk of that at another time."
He arose as he concluded, and, opening the door leading into the outer office, requested Mr. Bryant to join them, when the conversation became general.
Later that same day, at Mr. Raymond's desire, the papers were drawn up that made Edith the mistress of a snug little fortune in her own right, the income from which would insure her every comfort during the remainder of her life.
The man was unwilling that the matter should be delayed, lest something should interfere to balk his plans.
When Roy took Edith back to Mrs. Morrell's he expressed his admiration and sympathy in the highest terms for the generous-hearted invalid.
"When we make a home for ourselves, darling, let us invite him to share it, and we will try to make his last days his happiest days. What do you say to the plan, sweet?" he queried, as he bent to look into the beautiful face beside him.
Edith flushed painfully at his question and hesitated to reply.
"What is it, love?" he urged, forgetting for the moment the resolve he had made earlier in the day.
"Of course, Roy, I would be glad to do anything in the world for one who was so devoted to mamma, and who, for her sake, has been so considerate for my future; but—"
"Well, what is this dreadful 'but'?" was the smiling query.
"I am afraid that you are too sanguine regarding our prospects," returned the fair girl, gravely. "Iam somehow impressed that we shall meet with difficulties that you do not anticipate in the way of your happiness."
"Do not be faint-hearted, dear," said her lover, tenderly, although a shade of anxiety swept over his face as he spoke. "I am going immediately to look up that woman with whom Giulia Fiorini told you she boarded, and ascertain what evidence she can give me to sustain my theory regarding Correlli's relations with the girl."
He left Edith at Mrs. Morrell's door, and then hastened away upon his errand.
He easily found the street and number which Edith had given him, and, to his joy, the name of the woman he sought was on the door.
A portly matron, richly dressed, but with a very shrewd face, answered his ring, and greeted him with suave politeness.
"Yes, she remembered Giulia Fiorini," she remarked, in answer to his inquiry. "She was a pretty Italian girl who had run away from her own country, wasn't she? Would the gentleman kindly walk in? and she would willingly respond to any further questions he might wish to ask."
Roy followed her into a handsomely-furnished parlor, that was separated from another by elegant portieres, which, however, were closely drawn, thus concealing the room beyond.
"Yes," madam continued, "the girl had a child—a boy—a fine little fellow, whom she called Ino, and she did remember that a gentleman visited them occasionally—the girl's brother, cousin, or some other relation, she believed"—with a look of perplexity that would lead one to infer that such visits had been so rare she found it difficult to place the gentleman at all.
"No, she did not even know his name, and she had never heard him admit that the girl was his wife—certainly not!—nor the child call him father or papa. There had always been something mysterious about Giulia, but she had appeared to have plenty of money, and had paid her well, and thus she had not concerned herself about her private affairs."
Roy's heart grew cold and heavy within him as he listened to these suave and evasive replies to his every question.
It was evident to him that she had already received instructions what to say in the event of such a visit, and was paid liberally to carry them out.
He spent nearly an hour with her trying to make her contradict or commit herself in some way, but she never once made a mistake; her answers were very pat and to the point, and he knew no more when he arose to leave than he had known when he entered the house.
He was very heavy-hearted—indeed, a feeling of despair began to settle down upon him; for, unless he could prove that Emil Correlli had taken Giulia Fiorini to that house, and lived with her there as her husband, he felt that he had very little to hope for regarding his future with Edith.
Madam ushered him out as courteously as she had invited him in, regretting exceedingly that she could not give him all the information he desired, and hoped that the matter was not so important as to cause him any especial annoyance.
She even inquired if he knew where Giulia was at that time, remarking that she "had been invariably sweet-tempered and lady-like, and she should always feel an interest in her, in spite of a certain air of mystery that seemed to envelop her."
But the moment the door closed after her visitor madam's keen, black eyes began to glitter and a shrewd smile played about her cunning mouth.
A little gurgling laugh of triumph broke from her red lips as she returned to the parlor, when the portieres between it and the room were swept aside, and Emil Correlli himself walked into her presence.
"Well done, madam! you managed to pull the wool over his eyes in very good shape," the man remarked, a look of evil triumph sweeping over his face.
"Certainly, Mr. Correlli," the woman returned, in a tone of serene satisfaction. "Only give me my price, and I am ready to make anybody believe that black is white, every time; and now I'll take that five hundred, if you please," she concluded, as she extended her fat hand for the plump fee for which she had been so zealously working.
"You shall have it—you shall have it; I will write you a check for it immediately," said Monsieur Correlli. "But—you are sure there is no one in the house who knows anything about the facts of the case?" he added, inquiringly, after a moment of thought.
"Yes, I am sure; I haven't a single servant now that was with me when the girl was here."
"Have you any idea where they went after leaving you?" asked the man, with evident uneasiness.
"Lor', no; you needn't have the slightest fear of their turning up," responded his companion, with a light laugh. "That lawyer might as well try to hunt for a needle in a hay-mow as to seek them as witnesses against you; while, as for the lodgers who were here at the time, not one of them knew anything about your affairs. By the way," she added, curiously, "what has become of the girl?"
"She followed me to Boston, and is there now, doubtless."
"Would she be likely to know anything about the laws of New York regarding marriage?"
"No, indeed; she is a perfect ignoramus as far as any knowledge of the customs of this country is concerned."
"That is lucky for you; but, if you know where she can be found, I would advise you to send her back to Italy with all possible dispatch. She is liable to make trouble for you if she learns the truth, for"—madam here shot a sly look at her companion—"a man can't live a year or two with a woman here in New York, allowing her to believe herself his wife, and her child to call him 'papa'—paying all her bills, without giving her a pretty strong claim upon him. However, mum's the word with me, provided I get my pay for it," she concluded, with a knowing wink.
Emil Correlli frowned at her coarse familiarity and the indirect threat implied in her last words; but, simply remarking that he "would draw that check," he returned to the room whence he had come, while his companion turned to a window, chuckling softly to herself.
Presently he reappeared and slipped into her hand a check for five hundred dollars.
"Now, in case this matter should come to court, I shall rely upon you to swear that the girl's story is false and the lawyer's charge simply a romance of his imagination," he remarked.
"You may depend on me, sir—I will not fail you," madam responded, as, with a complacent look, she neatly folded the check and deposited it in her purse.
Emil Correlli had arrived in New York very early the same morning, and, not caring to have his presence there known, he had sought a room in the house of the woman with whom Giulia had boarded for nearly two years.
Having partaken of a light breakfast, he went out again to seek the policeman to whom he had telegraphed to detain Edith.
He readily found him, when he learned all that we already know of the man's efforts to obey Correlli's orders.
"That was the girl, in spite of the lawyer's interference. You should have never let her go," he angrily exclaimed, when the officer had described Edith and told his story.
"But I couldn't, sir—I had no authority—no warrant—and I should have got myself into trouble," the man objected, adding: "The lawyer was a shrewd one and had a high and mighty way with him that made a fellow go into his boots and fight shy of him."
Monsieur Correlli knew that the man was right, and saw that he must make the best of the situation; so, taking possession of Roy's card, and making his way directly to Broadway, he prowled about the vicinity of his office to see what he could discover.
He had not waited very long when his heart bounded as he caught sight of Edith coming down the street and escorted by a handsome, manly fellow, whose beaming face and adoring eyes plainly betrayed his secret to the jealous watcher, who gnashed his teeth in fury at the sight.
The happy, unconscious couple soon disappeared within an office building, whereupon Correlli went back to his lodgings to lay his plans for future operations.
Some hours later, while he was conversing with his landlady in her pretty parlor, he was startled to see Edith's champion of the morning mounting the steps of the house.
Like a flash he seemed to comprehend the object of his visit there; but he was puzzled to understand how it was possible for either Edith or him to know that he or Giulia had ever lived there.
A few rapid words were sufficient to reveal the situation to his landlady, to whom he promised a liberal reward if she would implicitly follow his directions.
The result we know; and, although his bribe had been a heavy one, he did not begrudge the money, since he believed he had thus securely fortified himself against all attacks from the enemy.
Later in the day he attempted to dog the young lawyer's steps, hoping thus to ferret out Edith's hiding place; but nothing satisfactory resulted, for Roy, after his hard and somewhat disappointing day, simply repaired to his club, where, after partaking of his dinner and smoking a cigar to soothe his nerves, he retired to rest.
But the next morning, feeling secure of his position, Emil Correlli boldly presented himself in his rival's office and demanded of him Edith's address.
Roy was prepared for him, for his fruitless visit to Giulia's former landlady had aroused his suspicions that Monsieur Correlli was in the city.
Therefore he had resolved neither to evade nor parley with him, but boldly defy the man, by acknowledging himself the wronged girl's champion and legal adviser.
"I cannot give you Miss Allandale's address," he quietly responded to his visitor's demand.
"Do you mean to imply that you do not know it?" he questioned, arrogantly.
"Not at all, sir; the lady is under my protection, as my client; therefore, in her interest I refuse to reveal her place of residence," Roy coolly responded.
"But she is my wife, and I have a right to know where she is," said the would-be husband, his anger flaming up hotly at being thus balked in his desires.
"Your wife?" repeated the young lawyer, in an incredulous tone, but growing white about the mouth from the effort he made to retain command of himself, as the obnoxious term fell from the villain's lips.
"Certainly—I claim her as such; my right to do so cannot be questioned."
"There may be a difference of opinion regarding that matter," Roy calmly rejoined.
"But we were publicly married on the twenty-fifth."
"Ah! but there are circumstances under which even such a ceremony can have no legal significance."
The fiery Italian was no match for the lawyer in that cool, calm mood, and his anger increased as he realized it.
"But I have my certificate, and can produce plenty of witnesses to prove my statements," he retorted.
"The court will decide whether your evidence is sufficient to substantiate your claim," Mr. Bryant composedly remarked.
"The court?—will she take the matter into court?—willshe dare create such a scandal?" exclaimed the man, in a startled tone.
"I do not feel at liberty, even had I the inclination, to reveal any points in my client's case," coldly replied the young lawyer. "This much I will say, however," he added, sternly, "I shall leave nothing undone to free her from a tie that is both hateful and fraudulent."
"I warn you that you will have a battle to fight that will cost you something," snarled the baffled villain.
"That also remains to be seen, sir; but whether you or I win this battle, let me tell you, once for all, that Miss Allandale will never submit to any authority which you may imagine you have acquired over her by tricking her into this so-called marriage; she will never live one hour with you; she will never respond to your name."
Royal Bryant arose as he concluded this defiant speech, thus intimating to his visitor that he wished to put an end to the interview, for the curb that he was putting upon himself was becoming almost unbearable.
Emil Correlli gazed searchingly into his face for a moment, as if trying to measure his foe.
He could not fail to realize the superiority of the man, mentally, morally and physically, and the thought was maddening that perhaps Edith had freely given to him the love for which he had abjectly sued in vain.
"Well," he finally remarked, as he also arose, while he revealed his white teeth in a vicious smile, "it may be in her power to carry out that resolution, but one thing is sure, she can never free herself from the fetters which she finds so galling—she can never marry any other man while I live."
This shot told, for the blue veins in Roy's temples suddenly swelled out full at the malignant retort.
But he mastered his first impulse to seize the wretch and throw him from the window into the street, and quietly remarked:
"As I have twice before observed, sir, all these things remain to be seen and proved. Now, can I do anything further for you to-day?"
The man could not do otherwise than take the hint;besides, there was that in Roy's eye which warned him that it would not be safe for him to try him too far. So, abruptly turning upon his heel, he left the room, while our young lawyer, with tightly compressed lips and care-lined brow, walked the floor in troubled thought.
After leaving his office Emil Correlli repaired to the hotel where his letters were usually sent, and found awaiting him there a telegram announcing the sudden death of his sister and requesting his immediate return to Boston.
Shocked beyond measure, and grieved to the soul by this unexpected bereavement, he dropped everything and left New York on the next eastward express.
We know all that occurred in that home where death had come so unexpectedly; how, after the burial of Mrs. Goddard, Emil Correlli had suddenly found his already large fortune greatly augmented by the strange will of his sister, while the man whom she had always professed to adore was left destitute, and to shift for himself as best he could.
The day after he had turned Gerald Goddard out of his home, so to speak, the young man dismissed all his servants, closed the house, and put it into the hands of a real estate agent to be disposed of at the best advantage.
He made an effort to find Giulia and her child, with the intention of settling a comfortable income upon them, provided he could make the girl promise to return to Italy and never trouble him again.
But she had disappeared, and he could learn absolutely nothing regarding her movements; and, impressed with a feeling that she would yet revenge herself upon him in some unexpected way, he finally returned to New York, determined to ferret out Edith's hiding place.
Meantime the fair girl had been very happy with her new friends, who were also growing very fond of her.
But she would not allow herself to build too much upon the hope of attaining her freedom which Roy hadtried to arouse in her heart shortly after her arrival in New York.
Indeed, she had begun to notice that, after the first day or two, he had avoided conversing upon the subject, while he often wore a look of anxiety and care which betrayed that he was deeply troubled about something.
In fact, Roy was very heavy-hearted, for, since his failure to learn anything from Giulia's former landlady to prove his theory correct, he had begun to fear that it would be a very difficult matter to free the girl he loved from the chain that bound her to Correlli.
If he could have found the discarded girl herself he believed that, with her assistance, he would soon discover the servants who had been in the house during her residence there, and, through them, find some substantial evidence to work upon.
But although he had advertised for her in several Boston papers, he had not been able to get any trace of her.
He had, however, filed a plea to have Edith's so-called marriage set aside, and was anxiously waiting for some time to be appointed for a hearing of the' case.
Edith and her new acquaintance, Mr. Raymond, were fast becoming firm friends, in spite of the suspense that was hanging over the former regarding her future.
The young girl had first been drawn toward the invalid from a feeling of sympathy, and because of his old-time fondness for her mother. But, upon becoming better acquainted with him, she began to admire him for his many noble qualities, both of mind and heart, while she ever found him a most entertaining companion, as he possessed an exhaustless fund of anecdote and personal experiences, acquired during his extensive travels, which he never wearied of relating when he could find an appreciative listener.
Thus she spent a great deal of time with him, while by her many little attentions to his comfort she won a large place in his heart.
One day Mrs. Morrell and Edith went to attend a charity exhibition that was under the supervision of a friend of the former, at her own house.
Upon their arrival they were ushered into the drawing-room, which was beautifully decorated and hung with many exquisite paintings, while some rare gems were resting conspicuously upon easels.
In one corner, and artistically draped with a beautiful scarf, Edith was startled, almost at the moment of her entrance, to see a painting that was very familiar.
It was that representing a portion of an old Roman wall, with the lovers resting in its shadow, which had attracted the attention of Mrs. Stewart on the last night of the "winter frolic," at Wyoming.
With an expression of astonishment she went forward to examine it more closely and to assure herself that it was the original, and not a copy.
Yes, those two tiny letters, G. G., in one corner, told their own story, and proved her surmise to be correct.
"How strange that it should be here!" she breathed.
She had hardly uttered the words when some one arose from behind the easel, and—she stood face to face with Gerald Goddard himself.
The girl stood white and almost paralyzed before him, and the man appeared scarcely less astonished on beholding her.
"Miss Allen!" he faltered. "I never dreamed of meeting you here!"
"Oh, pray do not tell Monsieur Correlli that you have seen me," she gasped, fear for the moment superseding every other thought.
"Do not be troubled—he shall learn nothing from me," said the man, reassuringly. "Correlli and I are not very good friends just now, simply because I told him that I should do all in my power to help you prove that he had no just claim upon you."
"Thank you," said Edith, flushing with hope, but involuntarily shrinking from him, for she could not forget how he had degraded himself before her on that last horrible night at Wyoming.
"I suppose you have heard of my—of Mrs. Goddard's death?" he remarked, after a moment of silence.
"Mrs. Goddard—dead?" exclaimed Edith, shocked beyond expression.
"Yes, she died very suddenly, the second morning after you left Boston."
Edith was about to respond with some expression of regret and sympathy, when she saw him start violently, and a look of agony, that bordered on despair, leap into his eyes.
Involuntarily she turned to see what had caused it, and was both surprised and delighted to behold Mrs. Stewart—whom she supposed to be in Boston—just entering the room, and looking especially lovely in a rich black velvet costume, with a hat to match, but brightened by two or three exquisite pink roses.
At that instant a lady, to whom she had recently been introduced, laid her hand upon Edith's arm, remarking in quick, incisive tones:
"Miss Allandale, your friend, Mrs. Morrell, is beckoning you to come to her."
Again Gerald Goddard started, and so violently that he nearly knocked his picture from the easel.
He shot one quick, horrified glance at the girl.
"Miss Allandale!" he repeated, in a dazed tone, as all that the name implied forced itself upon his mind.
Another in the room had also caught the name, and turned to see who had been thus addressed.
As her glance fell upon Edith her beautiful face grew radiant.
"Oh, if it should be—" she breathed.
The next moment she had crossed the room to the girl's side.
"What did Mrs. Baldwin call you, dear?" she breathlessly inquired, regardless of etiquette, for she had not yet greeted her hostess. "Was it Miss Allandale?"
"Yes, that is my name," said Edith, flushing, but frankly meeting her look of eager inquiry.
"But you told me—" Mrs. Stewart whispered.
"Yes," interposed the young girl, "while I was in Boston I was known simply as Edith Allen—why, Iwill explain to you at some other time; but my real name is Edith Allandale."
The woman seemed turned to stone for a moment by this unexpected revelation, so statue-like did she become, as she also realized all that this confession embodied.
Then, as if compelled by some magnetic influence, her eyes were drawn toward the no less statue-like man standing by that never-to-be forgotten picture on the easel.
Their gaze met, and each read in that one brief look the conviction that made one heart bound with joy, the other to sink with despair—each knew that the beautiful girl, standing so wonderingly beside that stately woman, was the child that had been born to them in the pretty Italian villa hard by the old Roman wall which Gerald Goddard had so faithfully reproduced upon canvas.
Isabel Stewart was the first to recover herself, when, gently linking her arm within Edith's, she whispered, softly:
"Come with me, dear; I would like to see you alone for a few minutes."
She led her unresistingly from the room, across the hall, to a small reception-room, when, closing the door to keep out intruders, she turned and laid both her trembling hands upon the girl's shoulders.
"Tell me," she said, looking wistfully into her wondering eyes, "are you the daughter of Albert and Edith Allandale?"
"Yes."
It was all the answer that Edith, in her excitement, could make.
The beautiful woman caught her breath graspingly, and every particle of color faded from her face.
"Tell me, also," she went on, hurriedly, "did you ever hear your—your mother speak of a friend by the name of Belle Haven?"
Edith's heart leaped into her throat at this question, and she, too, began to tremble, as a suspicion of the truth flashed through her mind.
"No," she said, with quivering lips, "I never heard her mention such a person; but—"
"Yes—'but'—" eagerly repeated her companion.
"But," the fair girl continued, gravely, while she searched with a look of pain the eyes looking so eagerly into hers, "the evening after mamma was buried, I found some letters which had been written to her from Rome, and which were all signed 'Belle.'"
"Oh!—"
It was a sharp cry of agony that burst from Isabel Stewart's lips.
"Oh, why did she keep them?" she went on, wildly; "how could she have been so unwise? Why—why did she not destroy them?"
At these words a light so eager, so beautiful, so tender that it seemed to transfigure her, suddenly illumined Edith's face, for they confirmed, beyond a doubt, the suspicion and hope that had been creeping into her heart.
"Tell me—are you that 'Belle'?" she whispered, bending nearer to her with gleaming eyes.
"Oh, do not ask me!" cried the unhappy woman, a bitter sob escaping her.
She had never dreamed of anything so dreadful as that those fatal letters would fall into the hands of her child, to prejudice her and make her shrink from her with aversion.
She had planned, if she was ever so fortunate as to find her, and had to reveal her history to her, to smooth over all that would be likely to shock her—that she would never confess to her how despair had driven her to the verge of that one crime upon which she now looked back with unspeakable horror.
The thought that this beautiful girl knew all, and believed the worst—as she could not fail to do, she reasoned, after reading the crude facts mentioned in those letters—filled her with shame and grief: for how could she ever eradicate those first impressions, and win the love she so craved?
Thus she was wholly unprepared for what followed immediately upon her indirect acknowledgment of her identity.
The gentle girl, her expressive face radiant with mingled joy, love, sympathy, slipped both arms around her companion's waist, and dropping her head upon her shoulder, murmured, fondly:
"Ah, I am sure you are!—I am sure that I have found my mother, and—I am almost too happy to live."
"Child! my own darling! Is it possible that you can thus open your heart of hearts to me?" sobbed the astonished woman, as she clasped the slight form to her in a convulsive embrace.
"Oh, yes—yes; I have longed for you, with longing unspeakable, ever since I knew," Edith murmured, tremulously.
"Longed for me? Ah, I never dared to hope that Heaven could be so kind. I feared, love, that you would despise me, as a weak and willful woman, even after I should tell you all my story, with its extenuating circumstances; but now, while knowing and believing only the worst, you take me into the arms of your love, and own me—your mother!"
She broke down utterly at this point, and both, clasped in each other's embrace, sobbed in silent sympathy for a few moments.
"Well, dearest, this will never do," Mrs. Stewart at last exclaimed, as she lifted her face and smiled tenderly upon Edith; "we must at least compose ourselves long enough to make our adieus to our hostess; then I am going to take you home with me, to have all the story of our tangled past unraveled and explained. Come, let us sit down for a few moments, until we get rid of the traces of our tears, and you shall tell mehow you happened to be in Boston under the name of Edith Allen."
She drew her toward a couch as she spoke, and there Edith related how she had happened to meet the Goddard's on the train, between New York and Boston, and was engaged to act as madam's companion, and how also the mistake regarding her name had occurred.
"And were you happy with them, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Stewart, regarding her curiously.
The fair girl flushed.
"Indeed I was not," she replied, "I think they were the strangest people I ever met."
Almost as she spoke the door of the reception-room opened, and Gerald Goddard himself appeared upon the threshold.
He was pale to ghastliness, and looked years older than when Edith had seen him in the drawing-room a few minutes previous.
"Pardon me this intrusion, Miss—Edith," he began, shrinkingly, while he searched both faces before him with despairing eyes; "but I am about to leave, and I wished to give you this note before I went. If, after reading it, you should care to communicate with me, you can address me at the Murry Hill Hotel."
He laid the missive upon a table near the door, then, with a bow, withdrew, leaving the mother and daughter alone again.
"That was Mr. Goddard," Edith explained to her companion, as she arose to take the letter; but without a suspicion that the two had ever met before, or that the man was her own father—the "monster" who had so wronged her beautiful mother.
Mrs. Stewart made no reply to the remark; and Edith, breaking the seal of the envelope in her hands, drew forth several closely-written pages.
"Why!" she exclaimed, in a startled tone, "this is Mrs. Goddard's handwriting!"
She hastily unfolded the sheets and ran her eye rapidly down the first page, when a low cry broke from her lips, and, throwing herself upon her kneesbefore her mother, she buried her face in her lap, murmuring joyfully:
"Saved! saved!"
"Darling, tell me!—what is this that excites you so?" Mrs. Stewart pleaded, as she bent over her and softly kissed her flushed cheek.
Edith put the letter into her hands, saying, eagerly:
"Read it—read it!—it will tell its own story."
Her companion obeyed her, and, as she read, her face grew stern and white—her eyes glittered with a fiery light which told of an outraged spirit aroused to a point where it would have been dangerous for the woman who once had deeply wronged her, had she been living, to have crossed her path again.
"If I had known!—if I had known—" she began, when she reached the end. Then, suddenly checking herself, she added, tenderly, to Edith: "My love, it seems so wonderful—all this that has happened to you and to me! We must take time to talk it all over by ourselves. You can excuse yourself to your friend, can you not, and come with me to the Waldorf? Say that I wish to keep you for the remainder of the day and night, but will return you to her in the morning."
Edith's face beamed with delight at this proposal.
"Yes, indeed," she said, rising to comply at once with the request. "I am sure Nellie will willingly give me up, when I whisper the truth in her ear. My dear—dear mother!" she added, tremulously, as she bent forward and kissed the beautiful face with quivering lips, "this wonderful revelation seems too joyful to be true!"
"Edith, my child," gravely said Isabel Stewart, as she held the girl a little away from her and searched her face with anxious eyes, "after learning what you did of me, from those horrible letters, is there no shrinking in your heart—is there no feeling of—of shame or of pitiful contempt for me?"
"Not an atom, dear," whispered the trustful maiden, whose keen intuitions had long since fathomed the character of the woman before her; "to me you are as pure and dear as if that man—whoever he may havebeen—had never cast a shadow upon your life by the shameful deception which he practiced upon you."
"My blessed little comforter! you shall be rewarded for your faith in me," returned Mrs. Stewart, her lips wreathed in fondest smiles, her eyes glowing with happiness. "But go excuse yourself to Mrs. Morrell, then we will take leave of our hostess, and go home."
Ten minutes later they were on their way to the Waldorf.
It was rather a silent drive, for both were still too deeply moved over their recent reunion to care to enter into details just then. It was happiness enough to sit side by side, hand clasped in hand, knowing that they were mother and daughter, and in tenderest sympathy with each other.
Upon arriving at her hotel Mrs. Stewart led the way directly to her delightful suite of rooms, where, the moment the door was closed, she turned and once more gathered Edith into her arms.
"I must hold you—I must feel you, else I shall not be quite sure that I am not dreaming," she exclaimed. "I find it difficult to realize my great happiness. Can it be possible that I have my own again, after so many years! that you were once the tiny baby that I held in my arms in Rome, and loved better than any other earthly object? It is wonderful! wonderful! and strangest of all is the fact that your heart turns so fondly to me! Are you sure, dear, that you can unreservedly accept and love your mother, in spite of those letters, and what they revealed regarding my past life?"
And again she searched Edith's face and eyes as if she would read her inmost thoughts.
She met her glance clearly, unshrinkingly.
"I am sure that you never committed a willful wrong in your life," she gravely replied. "It was a sad mistake to go away from your home and parents, as you did; but there is no intent to sin to be laid to your charge—your soul shines, like a beacon light, through these dear eyes, and I am sure it is as pure and lovely as your face is beautiful."
"May He who always judges with divine mercy bless you for your sweet charity and faith," murmured Isabel Stewart, in tremulous tones, as she passionately kissed the lips which had just voiced such a blessed assurance of trust and love.
"Now come," she went on, a moment later, while, with her own hands, she tenderly removed Edith's hat and wrap, "we will make ourselves comfortable, then I will tell you all the sad story of my misguided youth."
Twining her arms about the girl's waist, she led her to a seat, and sitting beside her, she circumstantially related all that we already know of her history.
But not once did she mention the name of the man who had so deeply wronged her; for she had resolved, if it were possible, to keep from Edith the fact that Gerald Goddard, under whose roof she had lived, was her father.
The young girl, however, was not satisfied, was not content to be thus kept in the dark; and, when her mother's story was ended, she inquired, with grave face and clouded eyes:
"Who was this man?—why have you so persistently retrained from identifying him? What was the name of that coward to whom—with shame I say it—I am indebted for my being?"
"My love, cannot you restrain your curiosity upon that point? Will you not let the dead past bury its dead, without erecting a tablet to its memory?" her companion pleaded, gently. "It can do you no possible good—it might cause you infinite pain to know."
"Is the man living?" Edith sternly demanded.
Mrs. Stewart flushed.
"Yes," she replied, after a moment of hesitation.
"Then I must know—you must tell me, so that I may shun him as I would shun a deadly serpent," the young girl exclaimed, with compressed lips and flashing eyes.
Mrs. Stewart looked both pained and troubled.
"My love, I wish you would not press this point," she remarked, nervously.
"Edith turned and gazed searchingly into her eyes.
"Do you still cherish an atom of affection for him?" she inquired.
"No! a thousand times no!" was the emphatic response, accompanied by a gesture of abhorrence.
"Then you can have no personal motive or sensitiveness concerning the matter."
"No, my child—my desire is simply to save you pain—to spare you a shock, perchance."
"Do I know him already?—have I ever seen him?" cried Edith, in a startled tone.
"Yes, dear."
"Then tell me! tell me!" panted the girl. "Oh! if I have spoken with him, it is a wonder that my tongue was not paralyzed in the act—that my very soul did not shrink and recoil with aversion from him!" she exclaimed, trembling from head to foot with excitement.
Her mother saw that it would be useless to attempt to keep the truth from her; that it would be better to tell her, or she might brood over the matter and make herself unhappy by vainly trying to solve the riddle in her own mind.
"Edith," she said, with gentle gravity, "the man is—Gerald Goddard!"
The girl sprang to her feet, electrified by the startling revelation, a low cry of dismay escaping her.
"He! that man my—father!" she breathed, hoarsely, with dilating nostrils and horrified eyes.
"It is true," was the sad response. "I would have saved you the pain of knowing this if I could."
"Oh! and I have lived day after day in his presence! I have talked and jested with him! I have eaten of his bread, and his roof has sheltered me!" cried Edith, shivering with aversion. "Why, oh, why did not some instinct warn me of the wretched truth, and enable me to repudiate him and then fly from him as from some monster of evil? Ah, I was warned, if I had but heeded the signs," she continued, with flushed cheeks and flaming eyes. "There were many times when someword or look would make me shrink from him with a strange repugnance, and that last night in Wyoming—oh, he revealed his evil nature to me in a way that made me loathe him!"
"My child, pray calm yourself," pleaded her mother, regarding her with astonishment, for she never could have believed, but for this manifestation, that the usually gentle girl could have displayed so much spirit under any circumstances. "Come," she added, "sit down again, and explain what you meant by your reference to that last night at Wyoming."
And Edith, obeying her, related the conversation that had occurred between Mr. Goddard and herself, on the night of the ball, when the man had come to the dressing-room and asked her to button his gloves.
"It was very, very strange that you should have drifted into his home in such a way," Mrs. Stewart observed, when Edith's narrative was ended. "But, dear, I am not sorry—it was perhaps the best thing that could have happened, under the circumstances, for it afforded you an opportunity to gain an insight into the man's character without having been previously influenced or prejudiced by any one. If you had never met him, you might have imagined, after hearing my story, that I was more bitter and unforgiving toward him than he justly merited."
"He must have recognized you instantly when you entered Mrs. Wallace's drawing-room to-day," said Edith, musingly; "for, did you notice how strangely he looked when Mrs. Baldwin called me Miss Allandale, and you came to me so eagerly?"
"Yes; the relationship you bear to us both musthave flashed upon him with as great a shock as upon me," Mrs. Stewart returned.
"And how perfectly wretched he appeared when he came to the reception-room door to give me the letter," Edith remarked, musingly, as that white, pained face arose before her mind's eye.
"Can you wonder, dear? How could he help being appalled when he remembered the treatment you had received while you were a member of his family?"
"It all seems very wonderful!" said the fair girl, thoughtfully, "and the fact of your being in the house at the same time, seems strangest of all!"
"It was a very bold thing to do, I admit," responded Mrs. Stewart; "but the case demanded some risk on my part—I was determined to get hold of that certificate, if it was in existence. I thought it better to employ strategy, rather than come into open controversy with them, as I wished to avoid all publicity if possible. I firmly believe that, if Anna Correlli had suspected that I was still alive, she would have destroyed the document rather than allow it to come into my possession."
"But you could have proved your marriage, through Mr. Forsyth, even if she had," Edith interposed.
"Yes; but it would have caused a terrible scandal, for Mr. Goddard would have had to answer to the charge of bigamy; while the publicity I should have had to endure would have been exceedingly disagreeable to me. If, however, I had failed in my plans I should not have hesitated to adopt bold measures—for I was determined, for your sake as well as my own, to have proof that I was a legal wife and my child entitled to bear the name of her father, even though he might be unworthy of her respect."
"How did you happen to discover where the certificate was concealed?" Edith inquired.
"Do you remember, dear, the day when you came upon me, sitting faint and weary on the back stairs, and insisted that I should exchange work with you?" her companion questioned, with a fond smile.
"Yes, indeed, but I little thought that it was myown mother who was so worn out by performing such unaccustomed labor," the young girl responded, as she raised the hand she was holding and touched her lips softly to it.
"Neither of us had a suspicion of the tie between us," returned Mrs. Stewart; "and yet, from the moment that you entered the house, I experienced an unaccountable fondness for you."
"And I was immediately impressed that there was something very mysterious about you—our portly housekeeper," Edith smilingly replied.
"Did you?"
"Yes; for one thing, these hands"—regarding them fondly—"never looked as if they really belonged to portly Mrs. Weld, and, several times, you forgot to speak in your coarse, assumed tones; while, that evening, when I captured your hideous blue glasses, and looked into these lovely eyes, I was almost sure that you were not the woman you appeared to be."
"I remember," said her mother, "and I was conscious of your suspicions; but I did not mind, for my mission in that house was almost ended, and I intended, as soon as I could resume my real character, to renew my acquaintance with you, as Mrs. Stewart, and see if I could not persuade you to leave that uncongenial atmosphere and come to me."
"How strange!" murmured Edith.
"It was the motherly instinct reaching out after its own," was the tender response. "But, about my finding the certificate: You remember you offered to put the rooms in order, if I would sew for you meanwhile?"
"Yes."
"Well, that was the time that I learned where that precious paper could be found," and then she proceeded to relate the conversation that she had overheard between Mr. and Mrs. Goddard, and how, emboldened by it, she had afterward gone to the room of the latter to find her in the act of examining the very document she wanted.
She also told how, later, she had gone, by herself, to the room and deliberately taken possession of it.
She also mentioned the incident that had occurred on the same day in the dining-room, when Mr. Goddard had knocked her glasses off and seemed so disconcerted upon looking into her eyes.
"He appeared like one who had suddenly come face to face with some ghost of his past—as indeed he had," she concluded, with a sigh.
"I do not see how it can be possible for him to have known one peaceful moment since the day of his desertion of you in Rome," Edith remarked, with a grave, thoughtful face.
"I do not think he has," said her mother. "No one can be really at peace while leading a life of sin and selfish indulgence. I would rather, a thousand times, have lived my life, saddened and overshadowed by a great wrong and a lasting disgrace—as I have believed it to be—than to have exchanged places with either Gerald Goddard or Anna Correlli."
"How relieved you must have been when you met Mr. Forsyth and learned that your marriage had been a legal one," Edith observed, while she uttered a sigh of gratitude as she realized that thus all reproach had also been removed from her.
"Indeed I was, love; but more on your account than mine. And I immediately returned to America to prove it, and then reveal to my dear old friend, Edith, the fact that no stigma rested upon the birth of the child whom she had so nobly adopted as her own. Poor Edith! I loved her with all my heart," interposed the fair woman, with starting tears. "I wish I might have seen her once more, to bless her, from the depths of my grateful soul, for having so sacredly treasured the jewel that I committed to her care. If I could but have known two years earlier, and found her, she never need have suffered the privations which I am sure hastened her untimely death. You, too, my darling, would have been spared the wretched experience of which you have told me."
"I do not mind so much for myself, but was in despair sometimes to see how much mamma missed and needed the comforts to which she had always been accustomed," said Edith, the tears rolling over her cheeks as she remembered the patient sufferer who never murmured, even when she was enduring the pangs of hunger.
"Well, dear, do not grieve," said Mrs. Stewart, folding her in a fond embrace. "I know, from what you have told me, that you did your utmost to shield her from every ill; and, judging from what you have said regarding the state of her health at the time of Mr. Allandale's death, I believe she could not have lived very much longer, even under the most favorable circumstances. Now, my child," she continued, more brightly, and to distract the girl's thoughts from the sad past, "since everything is all explained, tell me something about these new friends of whom you have spoken—Mr. Bryant, Mrs. Morrell and Mr. Raymond."
Edith blushed rosily at the mention of her lover's name, and almost involuntarily she slipped her hand into her pocket and clasped a letter that lay concealed there.
"Mr. Bryant is the gentleman in whose office I was working at the time of mamma's death," she explained. "He, too, was the one who was so kind when I got into trouble with the five-dollar gold piece, and so it was to him I applied for advice, after escaping from Emil Correlli."
"Ah!" simply remarked Mrs. Stewart, but she was quick to observe the shy smile that hovered about the beautiful girl's mouth while she was speaking of Roy.
"I telegraphed him to meet me when I should arrive in New York," Edith resumed, "because I knew it would be late, and I did not know where it would be best for me to go. He did so, and took me directly to his cousin, and that is how I happened to be with Mrs. Morrell."
Mrs. Stewart put one taper finger beneath Edith's pretty, round chin, and gently lifting her downcast face, looked searchingly into her eyes.
"Darling, you are very fond of Mr. Bryant, are you not?" she softly questioned.
Instantly the fair face was dyed crimson, and, dropping her head upon her mother's shoulder, she murmured:
"How can I help it?"
"And he is going to win my daughter from me? I hope he is worthy."
"Oh, he is noble to the core of his heart," was the earnest reply.
"I believe he must be, dear, or you could not love him," smilingly returned her companion, adding: "At all events, he has been very kind and faithful to you, and therefore deserves my everlasting gratitude. Now tell me of this Mr. Raymond."
So Edith proceeded to relate the story of that gentleman's unfortunate love for and devotion to Mrs. Allandale; his recent quest for her, after learning of Mr. Allandale's misfortune and death, in order to leave his money to her; and how, after learning from Roy that she had died, he had then advertised for herself, and, since her return to New York, had settled the half of his fortune upon her.
"Really, it is like a romance, dear," said Mrs. Stewart, smiling, though somewhat sadly, when she concluded her pathetic tale. "To think that, after all, I should find my little girl an heiress in her own right! What a rich little body you will be by and by, when you also come in possession of your mother's inheritance," she added, lightly.
"Oh, pray do not suggest such a thought!" cried Edith, clinging to her. "All the wealth of the world could not make up to me the loss of my mother. Now that we have found each other, pray Heaven that we may be spared many, many years to enjoy our happiness."
"Forgive me, Edith—I should not have spoken like that," said Mrs. Stewart, bending forward to kiss the sweet, pained face beside her. "We will not begin to apprehend a parting in this first hour of our joy. Now I suppose we ought to consider what relationship weare going to sustain to each other in the future, before the world. Of course, neither of us would enjoy the notoriety which a true statement of our affairs would entail; at the same time, having found you, my darling, I feel that I can never allow you to call me anything but 'mother'—which is music to my hungry ears."
"No, indeed—I can never be denied the privilege of owning you," cried Edith, earnestly.
"Well, then, suppose you submit to a second adoption?" Mrs. Stewart suggested. "It will be very easy, and perfectly truthful, to state that, having been a dear friend of Mrs. Allandale's youth, and returning from abroad to find you alone in the world, I solicited the privilege of adopting the child of my old schoolmate and providing for her future. Such an arrangement would appear perfectly natural to the world, and no one could criticise us for loving each other just as tenderly as we choose, or question your right to give me the title I desire. What do you say, dear?"
"I think the plan a very nice one, and agree to it with all my heart," Edith eagerly responded.
"Then we will proceed to carry it out immediately, for I am very impatient to set up an establishment of my own, and introduce my darling daughter to society," smilingly returned Mrs. Stewart; adding, as she observed her somewhat curiously, "Are you fond of society and gay life, Edith?"
"Y-es, to a certain extent," was the rather thoughtful reply.
"How am I to interpret that slightly indefinite remark?" Mrs. Stewart playfully inquired. "Most girls are only too eager for fashionable life."
"And I used to enjoy it exceedingly," said the young girl, gravely, "but I have had an opportunity to see the other side during the last two years, and my ideas regarding what constitutes true enjoyment and happiness have become somewhat modified. I am sure that I shall still enjoy refined society; but, mother, dear, if your means are so ample, and you intend to set up an establishment of your own, let us, at the outset, take astand in the social world that no one can mistake, and maintain it most rigidly."
"A 'stand,' Edith! I don't quite clearly comprehend your meaning," said Mrs. Stewart, as she paused an instant.
"I mean regarding the people with whom we will and will not mingle. Have you ever heard of Paula Nelson, mother?"
"Yes, dear; I met her only a few evenings ago, at the house of Mrs. Raymond Ventnor; she is a noble woman, with a noble mission. I begin to comprehend you now, Edith."
"Then let us join her, heart and hand—let us take our stand for chastity and morality," Edith earnestly resumed. "Let us pledge ourselves never to admit within our doors any man who bears the reputation of being immoral, or who lightly esteems the purity of any woman, however humble; while, on the other hand, let us never refuse to hold out a helping hand to those poor, unfortunate girls, who, having once been deceived, honestly desire to rise above their mistake."
"That is bravely spoken, my noble Edith," said Mrs. Stewart, with dewy eyes. "And surely I, who have so much greater cause for taking such a stand than you, will second you most heartily in maintaining it in our future home. I believe that such a determination on the part of every pure woman, would soon make a radical change in the tone of society."
Both were silent for a few moments after this, but finally Edith turned to her companion and inquired:
"Mother, dear, where is Mr. Willard Livermore—the gentleman who rescued you from the Tiber—and his sister, also, who cared for you so faithfully during your long illness?"
"Alice Livermore is in Philadelphia, where she has long been practicing medicine for sweet charity's sake. Mr. Livermore is—here in New York," Mrs. Stewart responded, but flushing slightly as she spoke the name of the gentleman.
Something in her tone caused Edith to glance up curiously into her face, and she read there, in the lovelyflush and tender eye, which told her that her mother regarded her deliverer with a sentiment far stronger and deeper than that of mere gratitude or admiration.
"Ah! you—" she began, impulsively, and then stopped, confused.