The wild March winds by this time had given place to the warmer, balmier air of April. The winter snow had melted from the hillside, and here and there tufts of fresh young grass were seen starting into life. It was just such a morning, in short, as is most grateful to the young, and Edith felt its inspiriting influence as she rode along the rather muddy road. Another there was, too, who felt it; and as Edith sauntered slowly up the path, entering this time upon the rear piazza instead of the front, she heard again the soft, low voice which had sounded so mournful and sweet when heard in the still moonlight. Looking up she saw that a window of the Den was open, and through the lattice work a little hand was thrust, as if beckoning her to come. Stepping bank she tried to obtain a view of the person, but failed to do so, though the hand continued beckoning, and from the height there floated down to her the single word, "MIGGIE." That was all; but it brought her hand to her head as if she had received a sudden blow. "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?"