An hour later, St. Elmo Murray raised his face from the mahogany railing where it had rested since Edna left him, and looked around the noble pile which his munificence had erected. A full moon eyed him pityingly through the stained glass, and the gleam of the marble pulpit was chill and ghostly; and in that weird light the Christ was threatening, wrathful, appalling. As St. Elmo stood there alone, confronting the picture--confronting the past-memory, like the Witch of Endor, called up visions of the departed that were more terrible than the mantled form of Israel's prophet; and the proud, hopeless man bowed his haughty head, with a cry of anguish that rose mournfully to the vaulted ceiling of the sanctuary: "It went up single, echoless, 'My God! I am forsaken!'" CHAPTER XXIII. The weather was so inclement on the following day that no service was held in the church; but, notwithstanding the heavy rain, Edna went to the parsonage to bid adieu to her pastor and teacher. When she ascended the steps Mr. Hammond was walking up and down the portico with his hands clasped behind him, as was his habit when engrossed by earnest thought; and he greeted his pupil with a degree of mournful tenderness very soothing to her sad heart. Leading the way to his study, where Mrs. Powell sat with an open book on her lap, he said gently: "Agnes, will you be so kind as to leave us for a while? This is the last interview I shall have with Edna for a long time, perhaps forever, and there are some things I wish to say to her alone. You will find a better light in the dining-room, where all is quiet." As Mrs. Powell withdrew he locked the door, and for some seconds paced the floor; then, taking a seat on the chintz-covered lounge beside his pupil, he said eagerly: "St. Elmo was at the church yesterday afternoon. Are you willing to tell me what passed between you?" "Mr. Hammond, he told me his melancholy history. I know all now--know why he shrinks from meeting you, whom he has injured so cruelly; know all his guilt and your desolation." The old man bowed his white head on his bosom, and there was a painful silence. When he spoke, his voice was scarcely audible. "The punishment of Eli has fallen heavily upon me, and there have been hours when I thought that it was greater than I could bear--that it would utterly crush me; but the bitterness of the curse has passed away; and I can say truly of that 'meekest angel of God,' the Angel of Patience: 'He walks with thee, that angel kind, And gently whispers, Be resigned; Bear up, bear on; the end shall tell, The dear Lord ordereth all things well!'