"Yes. Edna might go, but he would be sure to bring her home before
dark?"

"Trust me; did I not bring her home before dark once?" he laughingly
asked. The two were soon tucked among the robes, skimming briskly
over the smooth, hard surface, which is just the next thing to
flying. They flew about the streets of the town a little while; met
Miss Paulina, who stared at Edna and said to a young lady by her
side: "Whoever can that be with Mr. Monteith?" Then their route
stretched many miles out into the quiet country. The journey was
long, but not tedious. It was beguiled by low-spoken words that kept
time to the slow, silvery chime of the bells--the old musical,
mysterious words that established a covenant between those two,
needing only the word from father and mother and minister to make
binding and never-ending.

Mr. Monteith was said, by belles of the town, to be destitute of a
heart--at least all their arts had not succeeded in finding it; even
Miss Percival, skilful as she was, had also failed, much to her
sorrow. To be sure, the heart was of small account to her, only so
that she might be mistress of the stately Monteith mansion, might
possess those gray ponies for her very own, and glitter in the silks
and jewels and laces that his money would buy. She had no heart
herself, because in her very shallow nature there was not room for
one. Paulina had failed thus far, but she was not discouraged. Mr.
Monteith's mother was old and feeble; she would die some day, then
"we shall see what we shall see"--then, of course, he would need
someone to preside over his home; and who so well fitted to adorn it
as she, the acknowledged beauty of the town?