“Hush, dear,” madam said, with gentle reproof, but her fine face was very grave and troubled. “We cannot understand the _why_ of a great many things; we know that they _are_, and we have no right to question the wisdom of anything that is beyond our comprehension; but I am greatly interested in this sorrow of yours and the young Marquis of Wycliffe. I know it will do you good to unburden your heart, and if you can trust me who am almost a stranger to you, tell me more about it.” “You do not seem like a stranger to me. You are more like a dear, long-tried friend, and I can never tell you how comforting your kind sympathy is to me,” Editha returned, with eyes full of tears. Madam’s only reply was a closer clasp around the slender waist, and the young girl continued: “When we met you that day in Redwood Library at Newport, and your hand closed over mine with such a strong yet fond clasp, and you looked into my eyes in that earnest, tender way you have, I could have wound my arms about your neck and wept out my grief upon your bosom even then.” Madam’s eyes were full of tears now, but Editha did not see them, and went on: “I will gladly tell you all about my sad trouble, only I would not like to weary you.” “It will not weary me, dear.” And so Editha, won more and more by this beautiful woman’s sweetness and gentleness, poured into her sympathizing ear all her story, beginning with the time Earle had come a poor boy into her uncle’s employ, and ending with their final separation when they were told that they were both children of one father. “It is a very strange, sad history,” madam said, when she had finished; “but the facts of the case are so very evident that there can be no way of disputing them; and this uncle of yours, what a noble man he was.” “Yes; he was mamma’s brother, and a dear, dear uncle. Oh! if he could but have lived,” Editha sighed. “My dear, he could not have prevented this.” “No; but he would have comforted me as no other could have done.” “You were every fond of him, then?” “Yes; I believe I loved him better than any one in the world. That does not seem just right to say, perhaps, when papa and mamma were living, but he was always so sympathizing and tender with me. He would always listen patiently and with interest to all my little trials, and sympathize with me when everybody else laughed at them as trifles.” “Had he no family of his own?” “No; he was what we call an old bachelor,” Editha replied, with a little smile; “and he was the dearest old bachelor that ever lived. I used to think sometimes that he must have loved some one long ago, for there were times when he was very sad. But he never seemed to like the ladies very well; he would never go into company if he could help it, and, whenever I said anything to him about it, he used to tell me, in a laughing way, that he was waiting to be my escort, so as to frighten away all unworthy suitors.” “He did not like the society of ladies, you say?”