Dear Aunt Lucy,--We left New York early last Monday, and by Tuesday
night we were once more safe and together here in our own dear home. We
had no misadventures on our journey, except that we nearly missed our
connection at Syracuse (where we left the parlor-car for the sleeper)
by getting on the wrong train. Fortunately dear Clement found out his
mistake just in time.

I had not the energy to do more than telegraph you from New York that
all our troubles were ended. I was too much upset by the agony that I
had been through to write. It was a very dreadful two days, dear
Aunt Lucy; the most dreadful--especially that second day and the last
night--that I have ever known. And dear Clement suffered even more than
I did, for I knew at least that he was alive, and he knew absolutely
nothing about me at all. It all seems now like a horrible dream, and
when I shut my eyes and think about it, I turn giddy and feel sick and
faint. You cannot possibly imagine, dear Aunt Lucy, how utterly, utterly
dreadful it all was!

If it had not been so very dreadful, it would have been a little absurd,
I think; for, you know, all the while that we were in such terrible
distress about being unable to find each other, we actually could have
opened our windows and talked to each other just across the street! As
I found out, when at last dear Clement came to me, his room in the
Brevoort House was directly opposite my apartment at No. 68 Clinton
Place. Was it not strange? And what was still stranger, dear Aunt Lucy,
was that the very morning that our agony ended I happened to look across
the street, and there, hanging beside an open window of the hotel, I saw
a lovely chasuble that I knew must belong to some clergyman, and it
made me think of the chasuble that Clement had written he had bought in
London--and it really was that very chasuble, you know, for Clement had
hung it there to get the creases out of it--and seeing it set me into
a perfect agony of grief, for I thought that I never was to see my dear
husband again, and that my children were fatherless, and that I was
a widow, and that there was nothing left for me in the world but the
blackest despair. And it was while I was crying my very heart out that
there was a knock at the door, and then, in a single instant, all my
sorrow was ended as I found myself once more in dear Clement's arms.

Yesterday dear Clement preached a beautiful sermon about man's
liability to error, and the myste