Edna Browning;

Mrs. Burton had been greatly distressed at the account given her by the servant of Miss Georgie’s going off in her party dress, without so much as telling her, and naturally enough felt a very little annoyed with the cause of her pet’s anxiety.

“That child will be the death of Georgie,” she said to her husband; and when he asked, “Who is she, any way, and what is she to Georgie?” she hardly knew what to reply, for she did not herself know just what Annie was to Georgie. “Not much, any way, second or third cousin,” she guessed; and then she bemoaned Georgie’s kind, tender, affectionate nature, which made her love everything young and helpless. She should go over in the morning herself, she said: and accordingly, as early as nine o’clock, she started for Jersey City, with a box of clothing for Georgie, who, with her water-proof wrapped around her uncovered shoulders, sat by the couch of the dead child, with a strange stony look upon her face, and in her red, swollen eyes.

She had not shed a tear since Annie died, and her own hands had made the little form ready for the grave.

“Don’t touch her; she is mine; I will do all myself,” she had said, almost fiercely, to Aunt Luna, when she first came in to care for the body.

She had also rejected Maude’s and Edna’s offers of assistance, and they had left her alone with her dead, and her own bitter thoughts, which nearly drove her mad, as she washed the little hands, and remembered when she had first felt their touch, and the thrill that touch had sent through every nerve. Then they were warm and soft, and she could have crushed them in her palm. Now they were cold and stiff, and she kissed them passionately, and drew the dainty white sleeves over the wasted arms, and combed, and brushed, and curled the silken hair, and felt glad that death had not robbed Annie of her beauty, as she finally laid her upon the couch, and then sat down beside her, unmindful that her rich dress was soiled and defaced, and her lace torn in more places than one. She took the tea and toast Jack brought her, because she knew he would insist until she ate, but she would not leave the room, and Mrs. Burton found her there, and called her a “poor dear,” and wondered at her grief, and felt half glad that the child was gone at last out of Georgie’s reach.

“I shall stay here till after the funeral,” she persisted, in replying to her aunt’s entreaties for her to go back to New York; and when Mrs. Burton asked where Annie was to be buried, she answered, “In Greenwood, of course.”

“Has your brother a lot there?” was Mrs. Burton’s next question; and Georgie replied:

“No, but he can have.”

And after her aunt was gone she went to her brother, and giving him a costly diamond ring, said to him:

“It is my right and wish to bury Annie, and bear the whole expense. Convert the ring into money and see to it for me. I want her laid in Greenwood.”

“In any particular spot?” Jack asked; and Georgie answered him:

“Yes, there’s a vacant spot near his grave. It has been there for years.”

Jack bowed, and turned away so as not to see the hot blushes on his sister’s face as she gave her orders for Annie’s burial.

That night Roy came himself to take Edna home. He was very sorry for Georgie, but, like Mrs. Burton, wondered at her love and grief for the little child.

“I would like to see the body. Can I?” he asked, and Georgie rose at once, and went with him into the darkened room where Annie lay.

Carefully, gently, she put back the thin covering, and then stood by Roy’s side while he looked upon the child.

“She must have been very beautiful in life; and there is a look on her face like you,” he said to Georgie, noticing for the first time how she shook as if in an ague chill. “You are sick; you have taken cold; this must not be,” he said, and he put his arm around her to lead her from the room.

But she held back, and laying one hand on the pale, dead face, grasped Roy’s shoulder with the other, and exclaimed:

“Not yet, Roy; wait a moment, please; hear me first; let me—”

He did not believe she knew at all what she was saying, and he cut her short and drew her forcibly away, just as she had, with a mighty effort, nerved herself to tell him why she had loved that little lifeless form so well.

“I meant to, I meant to, and he would not hear me. Surely it is not wrong to withhold it now,” she said to herself, when Roy had taken her from the room; and then came a sense of relief that, after all, he did not know, and she never need to tell. “Had she lived I would have kept my vow, but now I am free from it,” she thought, and there was a brighter look upon her face, and she moved about the house more like her olden self, but Maude, who watched her closely, saw that she shuddered every time Roy spoke pityingly to her, and that she seemed glad when at last he started for home, taking Edna with him.

The funeral was the next day, and Mrs. Burton came over in her carriage, and Roy came in his, bringing Edna and his mother with him. For once Georgie put fashion aside, and shocked her aunt by announcing her intention to go herself to Greenwood.

It was in vain that Mrs. Burton tried to dissuade her from it. She was determined, and the lady finally gave it up, and said she would go too, and take Mrs. Churchill and Edna in her carriage, suggesting that Roy go with Georgie, and Jack with Maude. And so it came about that Roy went as one of the chief mourners to Annie’s grave, and while the coffin was lowered in the ground, and he stood near with uncovered head, he glanced, by accident, at the tall head-stone beside him, and read upon it:

“Richard Le Roy. Born in England, Jan. 5, 18—. Died in New York, Oct. 10, 18—. Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”

Roy read it twice, and thought within himself, “I never knew before where Dick was buried. He was a pretty good fellow after all, but I don’t believe he ‘died in the Lord.’” And then Roy fell to wondering how many inscriptions upon tombstones were true, and in so doing failed to see how white and faint Georgie was, and how she trembled as she passed that grave on her way back to the carriage. It was a strange combination of things, Roy Leighton and Georgie Burton standing together with Annie’s grave between them, and Richard Le Roy’s just behind, but only two of the spectators knew how strange, and these gave no sign as they turned away and left the dead to their dreamless slumbers.

The remainder of the winter was passed by Georgie very quietly and soberly. She was not well, and did not care to go out, she said, and she declined all invitations to large parties, and staid mostly at home or at the Worth House, with Mrs. Churchill, who liked her in this subdued mood better than ever before. She never spoke of Annie, but she seemed a good deal changed, and was really kind to Edna, except at times, when Roy’s attentions in that quarter were a little too marked to suit her. Then her black eyes would blaze with a look which threatened harm to Miss Overton, who nevertheless enjoyed herself thoroughly, and passed a most delightful winter. Roy was very kind to her, and it had soon become known to his acquaintance that the pretty young lady seen with him so often in public was more of an equal to and friend of his mother, than a mere hired companion, and she was always included in the frequent invitations which came to the Leightons for dinners, and receptions, and parties, while it was a kind of mania with Mrs. Churchill to have her favorite dressed becomingly, and go with Roy, even when she was obliged to remain at home. And so in a certain way Miss Overton became a belle, and was sought after and courted and admired almost as much as Georgie herself.

Had she been an heiress, not fifty Georgies could have competed with her; but, being poor, she had this advantage, that the attentions of the male sex never became so serious as to require a check, and so she enjoyed it all, and to Roy seemed to grow more and more beautiful every day, while he even found himself at last growing jealous of the young men who surrounded her in such numbers the moment she entered a room; and he was glad when, toward the last of April, his mother signified her wish to go back to Leighton. Edna was glad, too, of the change; for she was pining for country air, and wanted so much to spend a few more delicious weeks at Leighton before she left it forever.

The wedding had finally been arranged by Mrs. Burton to take place in June, and as Mr. Burton had said that Maude should be married at the same time, and not have “two fusses,” it was to be a double bridal, and take place at Oakwood, whither the Burtons removed about the time that Roy came back to Leighton.