good news, he meant--and Aunt Barbara always shook her head,
while her face grew thinner, and her round, straight figure began to get
a stoop and a look of greater age than the family Bible would warrant.

Ethelyn had not been heard from, and search as he would, Richard could
find no trace of her whatever. She had effectually covered her tracks,
so that not even a clew to her whereabouts was found. No one had seen
her, or any person like her, and the suspense and anxiety of those
three--Richard, Aunt Barbara, and Andy--who loved her so well, was
getting to be terrible, when there came to Andy a letter--a letter in
the dear, familiar handwriting. A few lines only, and they read:

"NEW YORK, May--.

"MY DARLING ANDY: I know you have not forgotten me, and I am
superstitious enough to fancy that you are with me in spirit constantly.
I do not know why I am writing this to you, but something impels me to
do it, and tell you that I am well. I cannot say happy yet, for the
sundering of every earthly relation made too deep a wound for me not to
feel the pain for months and may be for years. I have employment,
though--constant employment--that helps me to bear, and keeps me from
dwelling too much upon the past.

"Andy, I want you to tell Richard that in thinking over my married life
I see many places where I did very wrong and tried him terribly. I am
sorry for that, and hope he will forgive me. I wish I had never crossed
his path and left so dark a shadow on his life.

"Tell your mother that I know now I did not try to make her like me.
Perhaps I could not if I had; but I might at least have tried. I am
sorry I troubled her so much.

"Tell Melinda Jones, and James and John, that I remember all their
kindness, and thank them so much. And Eunice, too. She was good to me,
always. And oh! Andy, please get word somehow to dear Aunt Barbara that
her lost Ethie is well, and so sorry to give her pain, as I know I do. I
would write to her myself, but I am afraid she blames me for going away
and bringing a kind of disgrace upon her and Aunt Van Buren. I cannot
say yet I am sorry for the step I took, and, until I am sorry I cannot
write to Aunt Barbara. But you must tell her for me how much I love her,
and how every night of my life I dream I am back in the dear old home
under the maples, and see upon the hills the swelling buds and leaves of
spring. Tell her not to forget me, and be sure that wherever I am or
whatever may befall me,