Sometimes, when a basket of flowers, or a handsome book, or a letter of thanks and cordial praise was received from an unknown reader, the young author was so overwhelmed with grateful appreciation of these little tokens of kindness and affection, that she wept over them, or prayed tremulously that she might make herself more worthy of the good opinion entertained of her by strangers.
Mr. Manning, whose cold, searching eye was ever upon her, could detect no exultation in her manner. She was earnestly grateful for every kind word uttered by her friends and admirers, for every favorable sentence penned about her writings; but she seemed only gravely glad, and was as little changed by praise as she had been by severe animadversion. The sweet, patient expression still rested on her face, and her beautiful eyes beamed with the steady light of resignation rather than the starry sparkle of extravagant joy.
Sometimes when the editor missed her at the literary reunions, where her presence always contributed largely to the enjoyment of the evening, and sought her in the schoolroom, he was often surprised to find her seated beside Felix, reading to him or listening to his conversation with a degree of interest which she did not always offer to the celebrities who visited her.
Her power over the cripple was boundless. His character was as clay in her hands, and she was faithfully striving to model a noble, hallowed life; for she believed that he was destined to achieve distinction, and fondly hoped to stamp upon his mind principles and aims that would fructify abundantly when she was silent in the grave.
Mrs. Andrews often told her that she was the only person who had ever controlled or influenced the boy—that she could make him just what she pleased; and she devoted herself to him, resolved to spare no toil in her efforts to correct the evil tendencies of his strong, obstinate, stormy nature.
His fondness for history, and for all that involved theories of government, led his governess to hope that at some future day he might recruit the depleted ranks of statesmen—that he might reflect lustre upon his country; and with this trust spurring her ever one, she became more and more absorbed in her schemes for developing his intellect and sanctifying his heart. People wondered how the lovely woman, whom society flattered and feted, could voluntarily shut herself up in a schoolroom, and few understood the sympathy which bound her so firmly to the broad-browed, sallow little cripple.
One December day, several months after their return from the seaside, Edna and Felix sat in the library. The boy had just completed Prescott's "Philip II.," and the governess had promised to read to him Schiller's "Don Carlos" and Goethe's "Egmont," in order to impress upon his memory the great actors of the Netherland revolution. She took up the copy of "Don Carlos," and crossing his arms on the top of his crutches, as was his habit, the pupil fixed his eyes on her face.
The reading had continued probably a half-hour, when Felix heard a whisper at the door, and, looking over his shoulder, saw a stranger standing on the threshold. He rose; the movement attracted the attention of the governess, and, as she looked up, a cry of joy rang through the room. She dropped the book and sprang forward with open arms.
"Oh, Mrs. Murray! dear friend!"
For some moments they stood locked in a warm embrace, and as Felix limped out of the room he heard his governess sobbing.