Mr. Heath was in his library, a large room adjoining his bedchamber, which also answered the purposes of a study, and was furnished with leathern-covered chairs, and surrounded by closely filled book-cases of polished walnut, surmounted at intervals with marble busts of the giants of intellect. A long table in the centre of the room was covered with maps, manuscripts, and works of reference. At one end Mr. Heath sat intently writing. His early habits of industry he still carried almost to excess. Idleness filched but few moments from him, and by a thorough system he managed to perform an amount of labor that would have been deemed prodigious in a close student. The work that engrossed the most of his time, the opus magnus, was the preparation of a pandect wherein the constitutions, statutes, and enactments of the various States of the Union would be digested and reconciled into one harmonious code of laws. The mere gathering and collating of material for this purpose involved a formidable amount of labor, and when in addition to this we consider that he supervised the accounts of the estate and kept up a voluminous correspondence with statesmen and politicians in all parts of the country, we may imagine that he had but few spare moments. Behind him on the wall hung the symbol of his weakness--an illuminated achievement intended to represent the arms of the Heath family. Should a visitor's attention be attracted by this heraldic device, the host was only too happy to explain the mystery of crest and quarterings, and to dilate on his lineage, tracing its common origin with that of a distinguished English ducal family. For Rufus Heath, in his heart of hearts, despised a republic and had no faith in the stability of its institutions. His ideal of a government was an oligarchy, with him and his like as oligarchs. Outwardly he professed the stanchest republicanism and devotion to equal rights. So absorbed had Mr. Heath become in his occupation that he heeded not his daughter as she came to ask him to breakfast. She entered the study softly, and almost timidly, for she held her father in a certain awe and dreaded to disturb him. It was only when she laid her hand lightly on his shoulder that he discovered her presence. "Father, good-morning," said she, seeking to press her lips to his cheek. "Ah! Miss Edna. Is that you?" he replied, impassively, and slowly disengaging her arm from his neck. "Good-morning. Leave me, child; I will be with you in an instant." There was no unkindness in the tone, but there was no warmth. The few words that had passed between them revealed enough to indicate to an observant witness the history of a daughter's heart, eager for the affection of a parent insulated from domestic ties by egotistic worldliness.