“Not if he truly loved you,” Mrs. Barrett interposed; and Edith answered impetuously: “But I tell you he does _not_ love me. He only cares for my personal attractions,—he would like to show me off as his young English bride, whose family must be ignored, for, mother, he told me that distinctly; he said he knew nothing of my friends, and did not care to know, as he wished for me alone; that if I married him, you must stay behind,—a mother-in-law always made more or less trouble, and he preferred to have you remain where you are, and if money was needed for your support, it should always be forthcoming in sufficient amount for every comfort.” “And yet he knows nothing of me to dislike,” Mrs. Barrett faltered, her countenance falling, and her eyes having in them a look of disappointment. That she was to be set aside and have no part in Edith’s grandeur, had never occurred to her, and in fancy she had already crossed the sea and was luxuriously domesticated at Schuyler Hill, as the mother of the mistress and general superintendent of everything, with plenty of money at her command, and herself looked up to and envied by the very people who had once treated her slightingly, and who would never suspect of having known her as Mrs. Fordham. She looked much older now than she had eleven years ago, and her hair was white as snow, while the deep black she wore constantly was a still more complete disguise. So there was no danger of detection,—no link to connect her with the cottage by the bridge where she once lived, or that grave under the evergreen. But all this was of no avail. Col. Schuyler would not have her on any terms, and knowing this she was the more easily reconciled to Edith’s decision, until by dint of questioning she learned that the colonel did not consider the matter settled, but would urge his suit again on his return to England. Then her old ambition revived, and with a mother’s forgetfulness of self, she thought, “She shall accept him then. I will see her a lady even if I starve in a garret.” But she wisely resolved to say no more upon the subject at present, and Edith had arisen to go, when down the stairs came the patter of little feet, and a sweet, childish voice was heard warbling a simple Scottish ballad, and Edith caught a gleam of bright auburn hair falling under a white cape bonnet, as a young girl went past the window and out upon the walk. “Whose child is that? Has Mrs. Rogers come?” she asked, and Mrs. Barrett answered: “She has been here nearly two weeks, and that is little Gertie Westbrooke.” CHAPTER XIII. MRS. BARRETT’S LODGERS. Mrs. Rogers had received a message from her cousin Norah, which sent her again to Caledonia Street, where she found Mrs. Barrett more civil than before, and more inclined to let her rooms. Some little hesitancy there was, it is true, with regard to the chamber which had been Edith’s, and where she now occasionally spent a night.