The dining-room at Schuyler Hill was one of the pleasantest rooms in the house, and it looked beautifully now with its glass and silver and flowers, and Edith felt a pardonable glow of pride and satisfaction in the thought that this pleasant home, with all its luxury, was hers, the gift of the man who led her so proudly to her seat at the head of his table, and pressing her hand as he relinquished it and went back to his post of honor as master of the house. The colonel, who was inclined to be a little stiff in his manners among strangers, appeared well at home and especially well at his own table, and Edith, as she looked at him presiding with so much dignity and ease, thought what a handsome gentleman he was, and felt herself blessed in the possession of him. CHAPTER XXVII. AFTER DINNER. They had some music, Alice and Julia playing a duet, and then the latter sang and Godfrey turned the leaves for her and thought how dreadfully she screeched, and longed for her to finish and let Edith take her place. But Edith could not sing that night. There were too many memories of the past crowding into her mind, and at the very thought of singing she felt the iron hand touch her throat as if in warning. “Thank you, Godfrey; some other time I shall be glad to sing, but not to-night. I am too tired, and if I may be excused, I will go to my room very soon,” she said, in reply to Godfrey’s urgent solicitation for a song. She was very pale, and her husband came to her aid and said: “Yes, Godfrey, Mrs. Schuyler must be excused; she is very weary, I see, and needs to rest. Shall I take you upstairs?” He turned to Edith as he said the last words, and offering her his arm led her from the room, saying as he bade the ladies good-night that he should not return again that evening, as he had some letters and papers to look over in his reading room. Thus left to themselves the young people were free to talk, and Godfrey threw down the gauntlet by asking his aunt what she thought of his new mother. “Isn’t she splendid?” he said. “And did you ever see a finer form than hers?” “She is much better than I expected, and I am glad for the sake of my sister’s memory; had she been at all like your wicked insinuations I certainly should have died with grief.” And then there followed another criticism upon Edith’s face, and form, and manners, and style, and antecedents,—the critics lingering longest over the latter, and insisting that Godfrey should be truthful and tell them what he knew. But Godfrey didn’t know anything except that she had once been a governess and was afterward the companion of their Aunt Sinclair, who esteemed her highly and was anxious for the match. “Has she no relatives? Who are the Lyles?” Julia asked, and Godfrey answered: