“If, after knowing all this, you still wish me to be your wife, I will not refuse, but will do my duty faithfully, so help me Heaven!” She showed the letter to her mother, who, finding that it was useless to oppose her daughter, offered to take it to Oakwood herself. “Better so than to trust it to the post,” she said. “Besides, it is well for me to be there to answer any questions he may ask, and to take the blame wholly upon myself, as I deserve.” Edith did not refuse. She was rather glad than otherwise to have her mother go as a kind of mediator between herself and the man whom she began to find it would be a little hard to lose. Accordingly Mrs. Barrett arrayed herself in her deepest mourning, and with her thick veil drawn over her face, started for Oakwood and asked for Colonel Schuyler. He had passed the four days drearily enough, and in his impatience had more than once resolved to go to Caledonia Street, and claim Edith’s answer. But he had promised her not to do so, and he remained at Oakwood in a state of great suspense, until the day when a lady was announced as wishing to see him. “It surely cannot be Edith,” he thought, as he started for the parlor, where the closely-veiled figure arose and introduced itself as “Mrs. Dr. Barrett, mother of Miss Lyle.” Colonel Schuyler was one of the preoccupied kind of men who take little note of what does not directly concern them, and though he must have heard the name of Edith’s mother, he had paid no attention to it, or thought strange that it was not Lyle. Now, however, he noticed it, and with only a stiff bow to the lady said: “Barrett? Mrs. Barrett? And you Miss Lyle’s mother? How is that?” “I have been twice married, and my last husband was Dr. Barrett,” was the reply, which satisfied the colonel, who took a seat at some distance from his visitor and waited for her to communicate her business. Evidently it was a little awkward for her to do so, for she hesitated and fidgeted in her chair and grew very red under her black veil, and wished Colonel Schuyler would not scan her as curiously as he was doing. At last, with a great effort, she began: “My daughter has told me all that has passed between you, and I am come with a message from her.” “A message!” Col. Schuyler repeated, in some surprise; “I supposed she was to write.” He did not like this interference by a third person, and that person a woman, whom his sister had described as “pushing and inquisitive,” and for whom he had conceived a prejudice without knowing why. She was very deferential, almost cringing in her manner, and her voice was apologetic in its tone, as she replied: “Yes, I know, she meant to send a letter, and she did commence one yesterday, but grew so nervous over it that she finally gave it up, and allowed me to come instead.” Here she stopped a moment, and her hands worked together restlessly while Col. Schuyler, in haste to know the worst, if worst there were, said stiffly: