arley's part, and the quiet
humdrum days went on again, and Edith found out how, as the poet says--

"Tasks, in hours of insight willed,
May be in hours of gloom fulfilled."

For Miss Harley, after that involuntary betrayal of her feelings,
relapsed into her own hard, irritable ways, and often made her niece's
life a very uncomfortable one.

Patiently and tenderly Edith nursed her aunt through the lingering
illness that went on from months to years; very rarely she found time
for a brief visit to the home where the little ones were fast growing
taller and wiser, the home which Jessie had now exchanged for one of her
own, and where careful Maude was still her mother's right hand.

Often it seemed to the girl that her lot in life had been rather harshly
determined, and she still found it a struggle to be patient and cheerful
through all.

And yet through this patient waiting there came to Edith the great joy
and blessing of her life.

Mr. Finch, the elderly medical man who had attended Miss Harley
throughout her illness, grew feeble and failing in health himself. He
engaged a partner to help him in his heavy, extensive practice, and this
young man, Edward Hallett by name, had not been many times to Ivy House
before he became keenly alive to the fact that Miss Harley's niece was
not only a pretty, but a good and very charming girl. It was strange how
soon the young doctor's visits began to make a brightness in Edith's
rather dreary days, how soon they both grew to look forward to the two
or three minutes together which they might hope to spend every alternate
morning.

Before very long, Edith, with the full approval of her parents and her
aunt, became Edward Hallett's promised wife.

They would have to wait a long while, for the young doctor was a poor
man, and Dr. Harley could not, even now, afford to give his daughter a
marriage portion.

But, while they waited, Edith's long trial came to a sudden, unexpected
end.

Poor Miss Harley was found one morning, when Stimson, who had been
sleeping more heavily than usual, arose from the bed she occupied in
her mistress's room, lying very calmly and quietly, as though asleep,
with her hands tightly clasped over a folded paper, which she must have
taken, after her maid had left her for the night, from the box which
always stood at her bedside. The sleep proved to be that last long
slumber which knows no waking on earth, and the paper, when the dea