"Mr. Hammond, are you ill? What can be the matter?"
Edna threw down her books and put her hand on the old man's shoulder. His face was concealed in his arms, and his half-stifled groan told that some fierce trial had over-taken him.
"Oh, child! I am troubled, perplexed, and my heart is heavy with a sorrow which I thought I had crushed."
He raised his head for a moment, looked sadly into the girl's face, and dropped his furrowed cheek on his hand.
"Has anything happened since I saw you yesterday?"
"Yes, I have been surprised by the arrival of some of my relatives, whose presence in my house revives very painful associations connected with earlier years. My niece, Mrs. Powell, and her daughter Gertrude, came very unexpectedly last night to make me a visit of some length; and to you, my child, I can frankly say the surprise is a painful one. Many years have elapsed since I received any tidings of Agnes Powell, and I knew not, until she suddenly appeared before me last night, that she was a widow, and bereft of a handsome fortune. She claims a temporary home under my roof; and, though she has caused me much suffering, I feel that I must endeavor to be patient and kind to her and her child. I have endured many trials, but this is one of the severest I have yet been called to pass through."
Distressed by the look of anguish on his pale face, Edna took his hand between both hers, and stroking it caressingly, said: "My dear sir, if it is your duty, God will strengthen and sustain you. Cheer up; I can't bear to see you looking so troubled. A cloud on your face, my dear Mr. Hammond, is to me like an eclipse of the sun. Pray do not keep me in shadow."
"If I could know that no mischief would result from Agnes's presence, I would not regard it so earnestly. I do not wish to be uncharitable or suspicious; but I fear that her motives are not such as I could--"
"May I intrude, Uncle Allan?"
The stranger's voice was very sweet and winning, and as she entered the room Edna could scarcely repress an exclamation of admiration; for the world sees but rarely such perfect beauty as was the portion of Agnes Powell.
She was one of those few women who seem the pets of time, whose form and features catch some new grace and charm from every passing year; and but for the tall, lovely girl who clung to her hand and called her "mother," a stranger would have believed her only twenty-six or eight.