Edith Leslie was a child when her mother died, yet old enough to feel the loss profoundly, and to be greatly shocked and cast down at the alacrity with which her father contrived to forget it. Having reduced Leslie to obedience, his bride essayed the same experiment on his daughter, but failed notably. There was something in the nature of the latter which revolted so impatiently against the selfish caprices and morbid fooleries which were played off hourly before her,--she was so indignant, moreover, at seeing her father sunk inch by inch in the slough of matrimonial thraldom,--that the issue might easily have been a protracted household feud. None but herself could know with how costly an effort she schooled herself to patience. With a caustic wit, and a fervent fancy which haunted her with images of an ideal life brighter than the work-day world around her, a nature with impulses which, less curbed and tempered, might have carried her through all the mazes of morbid rebellion, she still bent herself to accept her lot as she found it, in the full faith that flowers may be taught to grow on the flintiest soil. And now that the imagined maladies of a lifetime were turned at last into a mortal reality, and her step-mother lay on her death bed, Edith Leslie watched by her side with as much care as if this wretched piece of perverted sensibility had deserved her affection and esteem. CHAPTER XVII. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily, For she is wise, if I can judge of her; And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true; And true she is, as she hath proved herself; And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul.--_Merchant of Venice_. A week after he had heard the tidings from the old housekeeper, Morton saw Dr. Steele coming out of a patient's door and getting into his chaise. "Good morning, Dr. Steele." "Sir, your servant," said the old-fashioned doctor. "I'm sorry to hear that Mrs. Leslie is so ill." "It's very sad," said the doctor. "Now, what the deuse is this young fellow stopping me for?"--this was his internal comment. "I hope you don't despair of her." "Well, sir, she will hold out to-morrow, and the next day, too." "I beg your pardon. Your check rein is loose. Let me make it right." "Thank you, Mr. Morton," said the doctor, somewhat mollified. "Ahem!--Colonel Leslie is well, I hope." "Apparently so, sir." "And--ahem!--his family, too." "I wasn't aware he had a family." "I mean--that is to say--his daughter--Miss Leslie." The shrewd doctor turned his gray eyes sideways on the querist. "Ah, his daughter. What did you wish to know of her, sir?" "Merely to inquire----" said Morton, stammering and blushing visibly. "I mean only to ask if she is well." "I know nothing to the contrary. She seemed very well when I brought her down from Matherton last evening. I dare say, though, she can tell you herself a great deal better than I can. Good morning, Mr. Morton."