"Lor' bless you, child! I ain't got a millstun for a heart, and if I had, you'd turn it into wax. If work's all you want, you shall have it. I'm housekeeper at the hotel. You come to me as soon as you are able, and we'll find something." "Oh, thank you, thank you!" said Edith, fervidly. "Is dat you, Miss Edie?" called Hannibal's anxious voice. "Good-night, my dear," said Mrs. Groody, hastily, "Don't lose courage. I ain't on as good terms with the Lord as I ought to be. I seem too worried and busy to 'tend to religion; but I know enough about Him to be sure that He will take care of a poor child that wants to do right." "I don't understand how God lets happen all that's happened to-day. The best I can believe is, that we are dealt with in a mass, and the poor human atoms are lost sight of. But I am indeed grateful for your kindness, and will come to-morrow and do anything I can. Good-by." And the hack rumbled away, leaving her in the darkness, with Hannibal at the gate. "Oh, Hannibal, Hannibal," was all that Edith could say. "Is she done gone clean away?" asked Hannibal, in an awed whisper. "Would to heaven she had never been born!" said Edith, bitterly. "Help me into the house, for I feel as if I should die." Hannibal, trembling with fear himself, supported poor, exhausted Edith to a sofa, and then disappeared into the kitchen. Mrs. Allen and Laura came and stood with white faces by Edith's languid, unnerved form. There was no need of asking questions. She had returned alone, with her fresh young face looking old and drawn in its grief. At last Mrs. Allen said, with bitter emphasis: "She is no child of mine, from this day forth." Then followed such a dreary silence that it might seem that Zell had died and was no more. At last Hannibal bustled in, making a most desperate effort to keep up a poor show of courage and hope. He placed on a little table before Edith a steaming hot cup of tea, some toast, and wine, but the food was motioned away. "It would choke me," said Edith. Hannibal stood before her a moment, his quaint old visage working under the influence of emotion, almost beyond control. At last he managed to say: "Miss Edie, we'se all a leanin' on you. We'se nothin' but vines a climbin' up de orange-bush. If you goes down, we all does. And now, Miss Edie, I'd swallow pison for you. Won't you take a cup o' tea for de sake of ole Hannibal? 'Cause your sweet face looks so pinched, honey, dat I feels dat my ole black heart's ready to bust;" and Hannibal, feeling that the limit of his restraint was reached, retreated precipitately to the kitchen. The appeal, with its element of deep affection, was more needed by Edith in her half-paralyzed state than even the material refreshment. She sat up instantly, and drank the tea and wine, and ate a little of the toast. Then taking the cup and glass into the kitchen: