They had reached the steps, and Mrs. Powell came out to meet them.
"Where have you two runaways been? I have waited a half hour for you. Estelle, do come and see me. It is very dreary at the parsonage, and your visits are cheering and precious. Come, Gertrude."
When Gertrude kissed her friend, she whispered:
"Don't be mad with me, dearie. I will remember what you said, and talk to mamma this very evening."
Edna saw mother and daughter descend the long avenue and then running up to her room, she tied on her hat and walked rapidly across the park in an opposite direction.
About a mile and a half from Le Bocage, on a winding and unfrequented road leading to a sawmill, stood a small log-house containing only two rooms. The yard was neglected, full of rank weeds, and the gate was falling from its rusty hinges.
Edna walked up the decaying steps, and without pausing to knock, entered one of the comfortless-looking rooms.
On a cot in one corner lay an elderly man in the last stage of consumption, and by his side, busily engaged in knitting, sat a child about ten years old, whose pretty white face wore that touching look of patient placidity peculiar to the blind. Huldah Reed had never seen the light, but a marvellous change came over her countenance when Edna's light step and clear, sweet voice fell on her ear.
"Huldah, how is your father to-day?"
"Not as well as he was yesterday; but he is asleep now, and will be better when he wakes."