Mrs. Allandale had never meant that she should learn this terrible secret, and that is why she had been so anxious during her last moments that the contents of the j.a.panese box should be destroyed.

Edith wondered why she had kept the letters at all--why she had not destroyed them immediately upon adopting her, and thus prevented the possibility of a revelation like this.

To be sure, no one save herself need ever know of the fact unless she chose to disclose it; nevertheless, she felt just as deeply branded by it as if all the world had known of it.

"Oh, I had begun to hope that--" she began, then abruptly ceased, a burning flush suffusing her face as her thoughts thus went out toward Royal Bryant, whose eyes had only the day before told her, as plainly as eyes could speak, that he loved her, while her heart had thrilled with secret joy over the revelation, and the knowledge that her own affection had been irrevocably given to him, even though they had known each other so short a time.

Even in the midst of her sorrow over her dead, the thought that she loved and was beloved had been like the strains of soothing music to her, and she had looked forward to her return to the young lawyer's office as to a place of refuge, where she would meet with kindness and sympathy that would comfort her immeasurably.

But these beautiful dreams had been ruthlessly shattered; she could never be anything to Royal Bryant--he could never be anything to her, after learning what she had learned that night.

Edith determined to leave New York at once. With this object in view, she disposed of most of her furniture to a broker, who gave her sixty dollars for it. She reserved articles she presented to her stanch friend, Kate O'Brien. These matters attended to, she wrote a letter to Mr. Bryant, mailed it, and a few hours later was on the train, en route to Boston.

On Thursday morning Mr. Bryant, returning to town from a business trip, cheerfully entered his office, expecting to behold there the radiant face of Edith. To his great disappointment, she was absent; and her absence was explained in the appended letter, which he read with dismay and dejection.

"DEAR MR. BRYANT:--Inclosed you will find the amount which you so kindly loaned me on Monday, and without which I should have been in sore straits. On reaching home that day, I found my mother dying. She was buried yesterday afternoon, and I am now entirely alone in the world. I find that circ.u.mstances will not permit me to return to your employ, and when you receive this I shall have left New York. Pray do not think that because I do not see you and thank you personally before I go, I am ungrateful for all your recent and unexampled kindness to me. I am not, I a.s.sure you; I shall never forget it--it will be one of the sacred memories of my life, that in you, in a time of dire need, I found a true friend and helper.

Sincerely yours, EDITH ALLANDALE."

The lawyer lost no time in hastening to Edith's late residence. There he learned from Kate O'Brien that Edith had already gone, but she knew not her destination. He stated that he wished to consult the young lady upon a business matter and that if Mrs. O'Brien should learn of her address, it would be considered a great favor if she would bring it to him. This the kind-hearted Irish woman agreed to do, and with a heavy heart the young lawyer returned to his place of business.

Meanwhile, Edith was being wheeled along the rails toward her destination. When the train reached New Haven, feeling faint, for she had not been able to eat much breakfast, she got out to purchase a lunch.

She entered the station and bought some sandwiches, together with a little fruit, and then started to return to the train.

Just in front of her she noticed a fine-looking, richly-clad couple who were evidently bound in the same direction.

The gentleman opened the door for his companion to pa.s.s out, but as she did so, the heel of her boot caught upon the threshold, and she would have fallen heavily to the platform if Edith had not sprung forward and caught her by the hand which she threw out to save herself.

As it was, she was evidently badly hurt, for she turned very white and a sharp cry of pain was forced from her lips.

"Are you injured, madam? Can I do anything for you?" Edith inquired, while her husband, springing to her aid, exclaimed, in a tone of mingled concern and impatience:

"What have you done, Anna?"

"Turned my ankle, I think," the woman replied, as she leaned heavily against his shoulder for support.

Edith stooped to pick up the beautiful Russia leather bag which she had dropped as she stumbled, and followed the couple to the train, where, with the help of a porter, the injured lady was a.s.sisted into a parlor car.

The one adjoining it was the common pa.s.senger coach in which Edith had ridden from New York.

"Here is madam's bag, sir," she remarked to the gentleman, as, supporting his wife with one arm, he was about to pa.s.s into the Pullman.

"Are you going on this train?" he inquired, looking back over his shoulder at her.

"Yes, sir; but I do not belong in the parlor car."

"Never mind; we will fix that all right. Bring the bag along, if you will be so kind," he returned, as he went on with his companion.

So Edith followed them to the little state-room at one end of the car, where madam sank heavily into a chair, looking as if she were ready to swoon.

"Oh, get off my boot!" she pleaded, thrusting out her injured foot.

Edith drew forward a ha.s.sock for it to rest upon, and then, with a face full of sympathy, dropped upon her knees and began to unb.u.t.ton the boot, which, however, was no easy matter, as the ankle was already much swollen.

The train began to move just at this moment, and the young girl started to her feet, an anxious look sweeping over her face.

"Never mind," said the gentleman, rea.s.suringly. "Unless you have friends aboard the train to be troubled about you, I will take you back to your car presently."

"I have no one--I am traveling alone," Edith responded, and flushing slightly, as she encountered the gaze of earnest admiration which he bestowed upon her.

The gentleman's face lighted at her reply.

"Then would it be presuming upon your kindness too much to ask you to remain with my wife?" he inquired. "I am perfectly helpless, like most men, when any one is ill and we know no one on the train."

"I will gladly stay, and do whatever I can for her," eagerly returned Edith, who felt that it would be a great relief and safeguard if she could complete her journey under the protection of these prepossessing people; while, too, it would give her something to think of and keep her from dwelling upon her own sorrows.

As Edith, from time to time, continued her ministering to the injured foot, rubbing it with alcohol, to reduce the inflammation, she was questioned by her new acquaintances, and informed them of her recent bereavement and of her lonely condition, and stated that she was going to Boston to try to secure employment.

She was applying the alcohol when the lady said:

"That will do for the present, Miss ---- What shall I call you, please?" she remarked, signifying that she did not care to have the foot rubbed any longer at that time.

"Edith Allen--Oh, what have I done?" the young girl suddenly cried out, in a voice of pain, as the woman winced and gave vent to a moan beneath her touch.

"Nothing--do not be troubled, dear--only you happened to touch a very tender spot," exclaimed the lady, trying to smile rea.s.suringly into the girl's startled face. "So your name is Edith Allen; that sounds very nice," she continued. "I am fond of pretty names as I am of pretty people."

Edith opened her lips to correct her regarding her name; then suddenly checked herself.

It did not matter, she thought, if they did not know her full name.

She might never see them again; she had a right to use only the first half of her surname, if she chose, and it would not be nearly so conspicuous as Allandale, which was so familiar in certain circles in New York.

Thus she concluded to let the matter rest as it was.

The acquaintance thus begun was productive of an utterly unexpected result. Before the trip was ended, the lady had induced Edith to accept the position of traveling companion to her, at a salary of twenty-five dollars a month. She stated that about a month previous she had lost the services of the female who had filled the position, and until this time had been unable to find a suitable person for the place.

Edith decided to try the position for a month; "then," she added, "if I meet your requirements, we can arrange for a longer time."

"Very well; I am pleased with that arrangement. And now, Edith--of course I am not going to be so formal as to address you as Miss Allen--"

"Certainly not," interposed Edith, with a charming little smile and blush.

"I was about to remark," the lady went on, "that I think it is time we were formally introduced to you. My husband is known as Gerald G.o.ddard, Esq., of No. ---- Commonwealth avenue, Boston, and I am--Mrs.

G.o.ddard."

Edith wondered why she should have paused before speaking thus of herself; why she should have shot that quick, flashing glance into her husband's face as she did so.

She was a very handsome woman of perhaps forty-two or forty-three years. She was slightly above the medium height, with a magnificently proportioned figure. Her hair was coal-black, with a tendency to curl; her eyes were of the same color, very large and brilliant, and rendered peculiarly expressive by the long raven lashes which shaded them. Her complexion was a pale olive, clear and smooth as satin; her features were somewhat irregular, but singularly pleasing when she was animated; her cheeks slightly tinted, her lips a vivid scarlet, her teeth white as alabaster.