"Impossible. You know I have an unconquerable horror of scenes, and I do not at all fancy witnessing one that threatens to last until the train leaves. Go upstairs and cry yourself to sleep in ten minutes; that will be much more sensible. Come, Edna, are you ready?" The orphan was folded in a last embrace, and Mr. Murray held out his hand, drew her from his mother's arms, and taking his seat beside her in the carriage, ordered the coachman to drive on. The night was very dark, the wind sobbed down the avenue, and the rain fell in such torrents that as Edna leaned out for a last look at the stately mansion, which she had learned to love so well, she could only discern the outline of the bronze monsters by the glimmer of the light burning in the hall. She shrank far back in one corner, and her fingers clutched each other convulsively; but when they had passed through the gate and entered the main road Mr. Murray's hand was laid on hers--the cold fingers were unlocked gently but firmly, and raised to his lips. She made an effort to withdraw them, but found it useless, and the trial which she had fancied was at end seemed only beginning. "Edna, this is the last time I shall ever speak to you of myself; the last time I shall ever allude to all that has passed. It is entirely useless for one to ask you to reconsider? If you have no pity for me, have some mercy on yourself. You can not know how I dread the thought of your leaving me, and being roughly handled by a cold, selfish, ruthless world. Oh! it maddens me when I think of your giving your precious life, which would so glorify my home and gladden my desolate heart, to a public, who will trample upon you if possible, and, if it can not entirely crush you, will only value you as you deserve, when, with ruined health and withered hopes, you sink into the early grave malice and envy will have dug for you. Already your dear face has grown pale, and your eyes have a restless, troubled look, and shadows are gathering about your young, pure, fresh spirit. My darling, you are not strong enough to wrestle with the world; you will be trodden down by the masses in this conflict, upon which you enter so eagerly. Do you not know that 'literati' means literally the branded? The lettered slave! Oh! if not for my sake, at least for your own, reconsider before the hot irons sear your brow; and hide it here, my love; keep it white and pure and unfurrowed here, in the arms that will never weary of sheltering and clasping you close and safe from the burning brand of fame. Literati! A bondage worse than Roman slavery! Help me to make a proper use of my fortune, and you will do more real good to your race than by all you can ever accomplish with your pen, no matter how successful it may prove. If you were selfish and heartless as other women, adulation and celebrity and the praise of the public might satisfy you. But you are not, and I have studied your nature too