Starting to her feet as the last mentioned individual came into her mind, she walked to the window and saw just what she more than half expected to see—­a light shining through the iron lattice of the den—­a bright, cheerful light—­and as she gazed, there crept over her a faint, sick feeling, as if she knew of the ruin, the desolation, the blighted hopes and beautiful wreck embodied in the mystery at Grassy Spring.  Covering her eyes with her hands the tears trickled through her fingers, falling not so much for Arthur St. Claire as for the plaintive singing girl shrouded in so dark a mystery.  Drying her eyes she looked again across the meadow, but the blinds of the Den were closed, and only the moonbeams fell where the blaze of the lamp had been.

A week went by, and though Grace came twice to Collingwood, while Victor feigned several errands to Grassy Spring, nothing was known of the stranger.  Grace evidently had no suspicion of her existence, while Victor declared there was no trace of a white woman any where about the premises.  Mr. St. Claire, he said, sat in the library, his feet crossed in a chair and his hands on top of his head as if in a brown study, while Aunt Phillis appeared far more impatient than usual and had intimated to him plainly that “in her ‘pinion white niggers had better be at home tendin’ to thar own business, of they had any, and not pryin’ into thar neighbor’s affairs.”

At last Edith was surprised at receiving a note from Arthur, saying he was ready to resume their lessons at any time.  Highly delighted with the plan Edith answered immediately that she would come on the morrow, which was Friday.  Richard did not offer to go, owing in a great measure to the skillful management of Victor, who, though he did not suggest Mr. Floyd and the western wood lot, found some equally good excuse why his master’s presence would, that day of all others, be necessary at home.

The wild March winds by this time had given place to the warmer, balmier air of April.  The winter snow had melted from the hillside, and here and there tufts of fresh young grass were seen starting into life.  It was just such a morning, in short, as is most grateful to the young, and Edith felt its inspiriting influence as she rode along the rather muddy road.  Another there was, too, who felt it; and as Edith sauntered slowly up the path, entering this time upon the rear piazza instead of the front, she heard again the soft, low voice which had sounded so mournful and sweet when heard in the still moonlight.  Looking up she saw that a window of the Den was open, and through the lattice work a little hand was thrust, as if beckoning her to come.  Stepping bank she tried to obtain a view of the person, but failed to do so, though the hand continued beckoning, and from the height there floated down to her the single word, “Miggie.”  That was all; but it brought her hand to her head as if she had received a sudden blow.