Every day, after the mail came from the West, the
colonel rang at Aunt Barbara's door and asked solemnly, "if there was
any news"--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.
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