"Pretty lady," she whispered, "sweet lady, whose name I most know, speak, and tell Mr. Arthur that I didn't do it. I surely didn't." This constant appeal to Arthur, and total disregard of herself, did not increase Mrs. Atherton's amiability, and taking Edith by the shoulder she attempted to lead her from the room. At the door Edith stopped, and said imploringly to Arthur, "DO you think I stole it?" He shook his head, a movement unobserved by Grace, but fraught with so much happiness for the little girl. She did not heed Grace's reproaches now, nor care if she was banished to her own room for the remainder of the day. Arthur believed her innocent; Uncle Tom believed her innocent, and Rachel believed her innocent, which last fact was proved by the generous piece of custard pie hoisted to her window in a small tin pail, said pail being poised upon the prongs of a long pitch-fork. The act of thoughtful kindness touched a tender chord in Edith's heart, and the pie choked her badly, but she managed to eat it all save the crust, which she tossed into the grass, laughing to see how near it came to hitting Mrs. Atherton, who looked around to discover whence it could possibly have come. That night, just before dark, Grace entered Edith's room, and told her that as Mr. St. Claire, who left them on the morrow, had business in New York, and was going directly there, she had decided to send her with him to the Asylum. "He will take a letter from me," she continued, "telling them why you are sent back, and I greatly fear it will be long ere you find as good a home as this has been to you." Edith sat like one stunned by a heavy blow. She had not really believed that a calamity she so much dreaded, would overtake her, and the fact that it had, paralyzed her faculties. Thinking her in a fit of stubbornness Mrs. Atherton said no more, but busied herself in packing her scanty wardrobe, feeling occasionally a twinge of remorse as she bent over the little red, foreign-looking chest, or glanced at the slight figure sitting so motionless by the window. "Whose is this?" she asked, holding up a box containing a long, thick braid of hair. "Mother's hair! mothers hair! for Marie told me so. You shan't touch THAT!" and like a tigress Edith sprang upon her, and catching the blue-black tress, kissed it passionately, exclaiming, "'Tis mother's--'tis. I remember now, and I could not think before, but Marie told me so the last time I saw her, years and years ago. Oh, mother, if I ever had a mother, where are you to- night, when I want you so much?"