ome
home. Just after you left, Stephen ploughed up all the land in front of
your new house,--every inch of it, all up and down the road, between the
fence and the front doorstep,--and then he planted corn where you were
going to have your flower-beds. He has closed all the blinds and hung a "To
Let" sign on the large elm at the gate. Stephen never was spiteful in his
life, but this looks a little like spite. Perhaps he only wanted to save
his self-respect and let people know that everything between you was over
forever. Perhaps he thought it would stop talk once and for all. But you
won't mind, you lucky girl, staying nearly three months in Boston! [So
Almira purled on in violet ink, with shaded letters.] How I wish it had
come my way, though I'm not good at rubbing rheumatic patients, even when
they are _his_ aunt. Is _he_ as devoted as ever? And when will _it_ be? How
do you like the theater? Mother thinks you won't attend; but, by what he
used to say, I am sure church members in Boston always go to amusements.

Your loving friend,
Almira Shapley.

P.S. They say Rufus's doctor's bills here, and the operation and hospital
expenses in Portland, will mount up to five hundred dollars. Of course
Stephen will be dreadfully hampered by the toss of his barn, and maybe he
wants to let your house that was to be, because he really needs money. In
that case the dooryard won't be very attractive to tenants, with corn
planted right up to the steps and no path left! It's two feet tall now, and
by August (just when you were intending to move in) it will hide the front
windows. Not that you'll care, with a diamond on your engagement finger!

The letter was more than flesh and blood could stand, and Rose flung
herself on her bed to think and regret and repent, and, if possible, to
sob herself to sleep.

She knew now that she had never admired and respected Stephen so much
as at the moment when, under the reproach of his eyes, she had given him
back his ring. When she left Edgewood and parted with him forever she
had really loved him better than when she had promised to marry him.

Claude Merrill, on his native Boston heath, did not appear the romantic,
inspiring figure he had once been in her eyes. A week ago she distrusted
him; tonight she despised him.

What had happened to Rose was the dilation of her vision. She saw things
under a wider sk