The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1896-10-07
CHAPTER XIV.
FALSE!

You've just woke up from a hlce' ione
sleep"
Sleep! Then the bridge. the storm.
Raymond! No, no! it was all true. On!
where am I? Who are you? How came
I here, in this strange placer"
You are among kind, truo 1rlehus,
dearie-kind, true friends, ana you hus'
not get excited. tae doctor says:
Kind hearted, mothecly old MRS.
Blake, the farmers vile, strokeo Eoha
Deane's brow as she spoke, ana her
startled charge sank back among tne
pillows, moaning with weakness, mystl-
fcation, and anxiety.
A long sleep, indeed, had it been; for
two weeks had passed away since hon
est Farmer John had dragged her from
the snowdrift at his cottage door, ran
for the doctor, and, with his solicitous
wife, had worked all night long to re-
vive her well-nigh exhausted vitality.
Since then, in dose and delirium, the
poor child had lain, and this was the
first awakening to consciousness.
She listened with shudder to the
story that her motherly nurse told her
OF Their finding her that weird snowy
night. She cried softly as she told her,
too, how they came to love her bonny,
innocent face-how, if she was home.
less. friendless, they would gladly max Q
room for her in their home and their
hearts, bereft only short year since by
the death Of their own darling child.
They asked her no questions as She
grew stronger daily, and Edna did rot
enlghten them 1t seemed as II pail,
never to be lifted, hung over her young
life. She remembered all that the mes
senger her father had sent for her had
impaired to her-that he alone had
placed her at the seminary years agoIe,
and with him had perished the mystery
of her young life, all hopes of establish
ing her identity, Of finding her father.
She had been cast upon the world alone,
with ne 51aim upon her past life, and
the mystery of her. true identity was
mystery still.
No claim, save one-Raymond! Her
heart beat anxiously rs she thought OF
him. How he would worry over her
sudden departurs., Ter strange silence.
She must write 60 him, to her Gear friend
Beatrice Mercer, at once. No, she re-
membered all her guide had told her.
She must never Communicate with any
of her old friends Gltil she saw her
father. 1t might mean peril-trouble
for him. Oh! how the perplexities OF
her situation fretted her
A week passed by. She was strong
once more. All one day Edna reflected
seriously. That night, glancing lovingly
at the faces of her kind friends, she told
them of her resolve.
You have been like an own father
and mother to me-" she murmured,
gratefully. Il can never forget you
never cease to love you, butt am 60
ing away"
Blake.
4Yes; must see some friends. Then
will return, then may be glad OF your
happy, happy home. Please do Lot
question me, but I must 60.
Reluctantly they bade her good-by
the next morning. The farmer drove
her over to the railroad station. IN the
new garments with which her old torn
and bedraggled attire had been re-
placed, no one recognized her as the
supposed victim OF the bridge disaster,
an event strangely that Mr.. Blake had
not heard of. Edna had few dollars
in her pocket She bought ticket TAX
ing her half way to Hopedale, kissed
the fatherly farmer good-by, promised
to write or return within few days,
and the train whirled her away.
At the terminus she sold her watch.
This gave her ample means to continue
her journey. All the way she was think
ing OF what she should do. Something
In the memory of her guides strange
warning about the mystery that clouded
her fathers life impelled her to secrecy
In all her movements, and when she
reached Hopedale at noon she trusted
to her attire and heavy veil to conceal
her identity.
She haunted the vicinity OF the semi
nary. She would try to get word to
Beatrice. Finally, she addressed a
strange student. The reply to her
questions chilled and disconnected her.
Miss Mercer had left the seminary two
weeks previous.
Then Raymond-she must find him
now. She could tell him everything.
While he endeavored to get some trace
OF her father, she would return to the
Blakes and make her home with them.
1t was just dusk when she finally rang
at the door Of the Marshall resi-
dence.
servant informed her that Mr.. Mar
shall was not at home. He had gone to
the hotel with his father. the colonel.
what shall do? Oh! am so fear
full OF making a mistake, but must see
Raymond. Who else can I appeal to
In my uncertainty"
obviously, undecidedly, Edna walked
towards the village hostelry. 1t was
quite dusk, and she was very tirel
when she reached the place.
Mechanically, almost, she ascended
the stairs leading to the ladies' parlor,
and sank to cushioned chair, thinking,
wondering, hoping she was doing what
was erniMently proper, and for the best.
Footsteps on the stairs brought her to
her feet. II it was servant, she would
ask her to try and find Mr.. Raymond
Marshall and his father, and send them
TO her-but it was no servant. 1he Ia
miIiar form Of Doctor SimmS passed the
door. and following him was clerical
looking man, and the former was say
ing: .-
Mr.. Marshall is waiting for US. This
way. sir.
MIR. Marshall-RayMond! He was in
the hotel, then? What meant the words
of the Doctyr! Why was the ministe'
rial-looking man here: For few mo-
ments the perplcxed girl fingered. Then
involun,arily, she stole from the room
and down q corridor.
The sound Of voices through the oper
door Of darkened room drew her to its
threshold. 1t was the parlor Of the
suite occupied by Beatrice Mercer. Tn.
lhalf-ore door of the communicating
apartments admitted the sound of sol
iemn, impressive words.
Eoc ba 6rao Hn1f- ehk