“It is not cold; the fire has been kindled some time, and I wanted to see that Gertie’s room was all right. I am so sorry for her, and wish her to feel at home.” “Yes, certainly; but, Edith,—Mrs. Schuyler,—my dear,—are you not in danger of spoiling her by making so much of her. You could hardly do more if she were Alice herself, and such people do not often bear sudden elevation.” “Oh, Howard, what do you mean? You are not sorry we gave her a home?” Edith said, in much perplexity at his manner, as she followed him into the nursery. “No, not exactly that, certainly not; under the circumstances we could hardly have done otherwise than to give her a home, but we might have stopped there; we need not have made her one of the family, and our having done so may be productive of a great deal of harm. My daughter Julia is already in open rebellion, and has said things which disturb me very much.” “Julia,” Edith began, indignantly, but checked herself at once, as she met the questioning look in her husband’s eyes, and saw the meeting together of his eyebrows. Julia had been her only _bête noir_ since the departure of Miss Rossiter, and though they were outwardly extremely polite to each other, Edith knew that she was looked upon by the young lady as an intruder and adventuress, and that the slightest provocation on her part would fan the smouldering fire into a flame. Not a hint of this, however, had she ever given her husband, who, as she stopped suddenly, said: “You were going to speak of Julia.” “Nothing of any consequence,” she replied, “except that I will keep Gertie out of her way as much as possible.” “Yes, certainly, and now I must go. I have an appointment in town. There’s the carriage at the door. Good-by.” He kissed her forehead and stooped to kiss his boy, when Edith said hesitatingly: “By the way, Howard, would you mind driving round by the cottage on your way home and bringing Gertie with you? The snow is so deep and the walking so bad.” “I shall not have time,” he answered, a little stiffly, as he buttoned his overcoat, “and then, you forget that such people do not mind mud and snow. They are used to it.” He was gone before Edith could utter a word, and with a swelling heart she watched him driving down the avenue, and then bending over the cradle of her boy, she shed the first really bitter tears she had known since coming to Schuyler Hill. It is true she had received insolence from Miss Rossiter,, coldness from Julia, and indifference from Alice; but these had weighed little when her husband’s uniform kindness and consideration were in the opposite scale, and now it seemed as if he, too, were against her, and for a time she cried silently, wondering if she had done wrong to befriend the orphan girl, and if her coming there would be the beginning of discord between herself and husband.