How near Roy seemed to her there in Albany, which was not so very far from Leighton Place, and how she was tempted to take the New York train, and go to Charlie’s home; not into it, but to the town, where she could see it and visit Charlie’s grave. But a few moments’ reflection showed her the inexpediency of such an act. She had no money to waste in useless trips. She should need it all, and more, unless Uncle Phil opened his door to her; and so she put the scheme aside, and took, instead, the Boston train, which long before noon left her upon the platform at Rocky Point. Everybody knew Uncle Phil Overton, and half a dozen or more answered her questions at once, and wondered who she was, and what the queer old chap would do with such a dainty bit of femininity as she seemed to be. One man, a farmer, whose road homeward lay past the Overton place, offered to take her there, and she was soon riding along through scenery so wild and romantic, even in early December, as to elicit from her many an exclamation of surprise and delight, while her fingers fairly ached to grasp her pencil and paper and sketch some of the beautiful views with which the neighborhood abounded. The man was very respectful, but rather inquisitive; and as his curiosity was in no wise abated by the sight of her glowing face when, at the top of a hill, she threw back her veil, and asked him to stop a moment while she gazed at the scenery around her, he began to question her, and found that she was Phil Overton’s grand-niece, an orphan without friends, and that she had come to Rocky Point, hoping to find something to do. Did he know whether they were in want of a teacher in the academy, and did any of the scholars take lessons in drawing or music? She could teach both, though drawing was her preference. Mr. Belknap was very sorry to tell her that the old academy was closed,—“played out,” he said; and the “Deestrict” School had been commenced for a week, or more. “But then,” he added, as he saw the look of disappointment on Edna’s face, “maybe we could scare up a s’leck school. We had one last winter, kep’ by a man in a room of the academy; but he was a poor stick, and the boys raised the very old Harry with him. They wouldn’t with you, a slip of a girl. Ain’t you pretty young to teach?” “Yes, perhaps so; but I must do something,” Edna replied. She did not tell him she was a widow; and, seeing her clothed in so deep mourning, the man naturally concluded it was for her parents, and he began to feel a deep interest in her, telling her she might count on his children if she opened a school; that he would also help her to get scholars, if needful, and then he asked if she had any idea of the kind of man Uncle Phil Overton was. Something in Mr. Belknap’s question set Edna’s heart to beating rapidly, but before she could reply, they turned the corner in the road and came close to the house.