Edna was soon undressed and placed within the snowy sheets of a
heavily-carved bedstead, whose crimson canopy shed a ruby light down
on the laced and ruffled pillows. Mrs. Murray administered a dose of
medicine given to her by Dr. Rodney, and after closing the blinds to
exclude the light, she felt the girl's pulse, found that she had
fallen into a heavy sleep, and then, with a sigh, went down to take
her breakfast. It was several hours before Edna awoke, and when she
opened her eyes, and looked around the elegantly furnished and
beautiful room, she felt bewildered. Mrs. Murray sat in a cushioned
chair, near one of the windows, with a book in her hand, and Edna
had an opportunity of studying her face. It was fair, proud, and
handsome, but wore an expression of habitual anxiety; and gray hairs
showed themselves under the costly lace that bordered her morning
head-dress, while lines of care marked her brow and mouth. Children
instinctively decipher the hieroglyphics which time carves on human
faces, and, in reading the countenance of her hostess, Edna felt
that she was a haughty, ambitious woman, with a kind but not very
warm heart, who would be scrupulously attentive to the wants of a
sick child, but would probably never dream of caressing or fondling
such a charge. Chancing to glance towards the bed as she turned a
leaf, Mrs. Murray met the curious gaze fastened upon her, and,
rising, approached the sufferer.

"How do you feel, Edna? I believe that is your name."

"Thank you, my head is better, but I am very thirsty." The lady of
the house gave her some iced water in a silver goblet, and ordered a
servant to bring up the refreshments she had directed prepared. As
she felt the girl's pulse, Edna noticed how white and soft her hands