MRS. DANA did not live in a block, but in a little
wooden house standing by itself in the suburbs of
the city. John Dana, who was a carpenter by trade,
though he now kept a small grocery, had built the house
himself at odd hours of leisure, fashioning it after no particular
style, but rather according to his means, which were somewhat
limited. It was neither pretty nor commodious, but
very comfortable, and nicely kept by his thrifty wife, who
tried to make Edna feel that she was not in the way, notwithstanding
the smallness of the quarters and the hosts of
children which seemed to fill every nook and corner of the
kitchen, and followed even into the spare room, where,
though dignified with the name of parlor, there was a bed on
which poor Edna laid her aching head, feeling more desolate
and homesick than she had ever felt in her life before, and
in her desolation even longing for the old familiar chamber

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at Aunt Jerusha's which looked out upon the graveyard.
She was not accustomed to city ways of living, and the house
seemed so small and the noise in the street so great that she
felt it was impossible for her to stay there. But what should
she do and where should she go? To return to Aunt Jerusha
was not to be thought of, and so she did not consider that
for a moment; but her thoughts did keep straying away toward
Leighton, Charlie's home. Perhaps Georgie had been
mistaken and Charlie had a right there after all, or if he had
not, possibly his mother and brother would take some interest
in her for Charlie's sake, and ask her to come to them or
try to help her in some way.

“And if they do, I'll accept their overtures,” she thought
to herself, as she held her throbbing head with both hands,
and tried to keep back the scalding tears.

The children had been quieted down by this time. The
baby was asleep in its cradle; Rachel, the girl who in Mrs.
Dana's absence had cared for the family, had gone home,
and Mrs. Dana, having laid aside her travelling suit, was busy
putting things to rights and preparing supper for her husband,
the master of the house, whom Edna had not yet seen, and
whose approach was hailed by the children with a perfect
storm of joy.

“Papa's comin'. I seen him, I did.”

“I mean to tell him first ma's here.”

“You shut, 'cause I'm goin' to. You're always doin'
everything and me nothin'.”

These and similar outcries fell on Edna's ears, and she began
to feel a little curiosity about this man, who, finding her
there in the capacity of a poor, sick relation, might consider
her in the light of an intruder. But she did not know John
Dana. Everybody was welcome so long as he had a crust,
and as soon as he had been made a little more presentable
by a fresh collar and neck-tie, and had washed his hands to

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get off what his wife called “a mackerel smell,” he went to
Edna's room and spoke very kindly to her, and said he
hoped Susan had made her comfortable, and that the youngsters
would not drive her crazy.

He had one in his arms then, and two more were holding
to his coat skirts and climbing up his knees, and Edna felt
at once just how kind and generous and unselfish he was,
and the terrible pain lessened a little, and the home-sickness
was not so great as before. He had a letter for her, he said,
or rather one directed to Mr. Churchill, and placing in her
hands the letter written by Mrs. Churchill to her son, he
called his troop of children to come out while “Cousin Edna
read her letter.”

His wife had brought in a lamp, and sitting up in bed
Edna held the letter a moment while her hand grew icy cold
and her heart beat almost audibly. For a single moment
she thought, “I will not open it. I will send it back unread;”
then there came over her an intense desire to know
what Mrs. Churchill or Roy thought about the marriage.
Charlie had said to her on the morning of the bridal, “I
have written to Roy and told him we were coming home after
a little;” and this, of course, was the reply.

“Maybe I shall know if what Miss Burton said was true
or false, if I read this,” Edna thought, and with a hope for
the best she opened the envelope and read the letter through,
knowing when she had finished it how contemptuously Charlie's
mother looked upon the girl who had entangled her son
into a mésalliance, and how mercenary her motives were regarded.

“I cannot help feeling that if she had known all, your unfortunate
entanglement would have been prevented,” Mrs.
Churchill had written, and Edna commented sadly upon it:

“Yes, if I had known all, it would have been prevented;
but it is not the money,—no, not the money; oh, Charlie, it

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is losing faith in you which hurts me the worst,” she moaned;
then, resentment toward Mrs. Churchill got the better of her
grief, and she said, “I'll write to that woman, and tell her
how mistaken she is.”

But only for an instant did she harbor such a thought.
She would not wound Mrs. Churchill more deeply than she
was already wounded. She would not write her at all, but
to Roy, the heir,—Roy, the master of Leighton. The
money came from him, and to him it should be returned,
but not all at once. Fortunately for her Roy had sent a
check payable to the bearer, and so she had no trouble in
getting it cashed, and she decided that she must keep a part
and pay it afterward. She had seen enough of the arrangements
of the house to know that while there was not poverty,
there was not a great plenty, and the owners could ill
afford any additional expense.

“I may be sick for weeks,” she thought, “and I shall
need money, and that twenty-five dollars in poor Charlie's
purse will not go very far. Oh, if only Aunt Jerusha was
kind and forgiving; she has means; she could help me, if
she would.”

At this point Mrs. Dana came in, bringing Edna's supper,
which she had tried to make as inviting as possible. But
Edna could not eat; and, as the evening advanced, she
grew so hot and feverish, and said such queer things, that
Mrs. Dana sent for a physician, who managed by dint of
bleeding, and blistering, and pills, to reduce his patient to a
desirable state of weakness and keep her an invalid for two
weeks or more; during which time Jack Heyford came many
times to inquire after her, and bring her some little present
which he thought might please her. Now it was an orange,
or a bunch of grapes, and again a bouquet of flowers, which
he left; and Edna liked these the best, and always cried over
them, and thought of the little patch of flowers which, after

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a vast amount of pleading, she had been permitted to have
for her own in Aunt Jerusha's garden.

From Aunt Jerusha there had as yet come no reply to the
message sent from Iona, and Edna began to feel that she
was alone in the world, with herself to care for, unaided by
any one. And with returning strength she felt equal to it.
The blow which had taken Charlie from her and opened her
eyes to Charlie's defects, and showed her the estimation in
which Charlie's mother held her, seemed to have cut her
loose from all that was giddy, and weak, and foolish in the
Edna Browning of old. All the lightness and thoughtlessness
of her young girlhood fled away and left her at seventeen
a woman, self-reliant, and determined to fight her own
way in the world independent of friend or foe.

And so her first act when able to do anything was to send
the three hundred dollars back to Roy, with her note for the
balance. How proud and strong she felt as she wrote that
note, and then read it aloud to see how it sounded, and how
she anticipated the time when she could pay it even to the
utmost farthing. Once she thought to sell her watch and
corals, the pretty gifts which Charlie had brought her just
before she went with him to the house of the clergyman.
He had come into the room after she was dressed, and stealing
up behind her, had laid the chain across her neck, and
with his arms around her had held the watch before her eyes
and said:

“Look here, my darling! see what I have brought you.”

With boyish delight, he fastened it in her belt, and put the
delicate pink jewels in her ears, and then bade her look at
herself in the mirror to see the effect. That scene was as
vividly in her mind as if it had occurred but yesterday; the
happy, blushing face which the mirror reflected, and behind
the young girl the tall young man whose lips touched her
glowing cheeks as they whispered, “My beauty, my wife!”

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She could not part with the bridal gift, so she kept a part
of Roy's money, and put the coral away as unsuited to her
black dress, but she wore the watch, and its muffled ticking
beneath her belt seemed like some friendly human heart
throbbing against her own. This was before she received
Aunt Jerusha's effusion, which came to her the same day
on which she sent her first letter to Roy, and which deserves
a place in another chapter.