“Thank you, thank you,” she said. “You have done me so much good. I have been so miserable, and there was no one whom I could talk with about it. I shall not forget you, Mrs. Lyle, and sometimes I may perhaps write to you, and tell you of my home. And now I must go; but first, will you give me your blessing. I want it so much.” And kneeling before the old lady Edith bowed her beautiful head, while a hand was laid gently on her shining hair, and a trembling voice said reverently: “Will God bless and keep my bonny child and make her a gude and happy wife, an’ gi’e her many bairns to comfort her auld age.” She was thinking of her Abelard who died, and Edith thought of him too, and there were tears in her eyes as she rose from her knees, and, kissing the white-haired woman who had done her so much good, went out from her presence with a happier, lighter heart than she had known for many a day. It was all right, since Abelard’s mother had said so and blessed her, and she could be happy now, and when her husband returned from the castle he met a very bright, beaming face at the door of his room, and his young wife’s arms were round his neck, and his wife herself was on his knee when she told him that she had been again to see Mrs. Lyle, and made ample amends for all yesterday’s reserve. She did not tell him of the advice or blessing, but she said: “I know I left a good impression, and I promised to write to her some time and tell her of my home. She seems a very nice old lady.” Col. Schuyler kissed her glowing cheek and called her a conscientious little puss, and thought how very beautiful she was in her pretty evening dress, with the wild flowers in her hair, and felt himself the most fortunate man in England to possess so much youth and beauty. A few days later found them again at Oakwood, where Godfrey met them at the station and saluted Edith as his “mamma,” while his eyes danced with mischief and fun. He did not tell her of the letter of dismay which had come to him from home in answer to his own, wherein the charms of the new mother had been so graphically described. But he laughed to himself every time he thought of it, and what they were prepared for, and then thought of the rare type of loveliness whom he teasingly called mamma, and to whom he was as attentive as if he had been her lover instead of her step-son. Robert Macpherson was still at Oakwood, and greatly to Godfrey’s delight had decided upon going to America. “The very nicest chap in the world,” Godfrey still continued to think him, in spite of the hair parted in the middle, and the night-shirts ruffled and buttoned behind.