Ethelyn's Mistake

Mrs. James Markham had spent a few weeks with a party of Davenport

friends in St. Paul and vicinity, but she was now at home in Olney with

her mother, whom she helped with the ironing that morning, showing a

quickness and dexterity in the doing up of Tim's shirts and best table

linen which proved that, although a "mighty fine lady," as some of the

Olneyites termed her, she had neither forgotten nor was above working in

the kitchen when the occasion required. The day's ironing was over now,

and refreshed with a bath and a half-hour's sleep after it, she sat

under the shadow of the tall trees, arrayed in her white marseilles,

which, being gored, made her look, as unsophisticated Andy thought, most

too slim and flat. Andy himself was over at the Joneses that afternoon,

and, down upon all fours, was playing bear with baby Ethelyn, who

shouted and screamed with delight at the antics of her childish uncle.

Mrs. James was not contemplating a return to Davenport for three or four

weeks; indeed, ever since the letter received from Clifton with regard

to Richard's sickness, she had been seriously meditating a flying visit

to the invalid, who she knew would be glad to see her. It must be very

desolate for him there alone, she said; and then her thoughts went after

the wanderer whom they had long since ceased to talk about, much less

than to expect back again. Melinda was sadly thinking of her, and

speculating as to what her fate had been, when down the road from the

village came the little messenger boy, who always made one's heart beat

so fast when he handed out his missive. He had one now, and he brought

it to Melinda, who, thinking of her husband, gone to Denver City, felt

a thrill of fear lest something had befallen him. But no; the dispatch

came from Davenport, from Mrs. Dobson herself, and read that a strange

woman lay very sick in the house.

"A strange woman," that was all, but it made Melinda's heart leap up

into her throat at the bare possibility as to who the strange woman

might be. Andy was standing by her now reading the message, and Melinda

knew by the flush upon his face, and the drops of perspiration which

started out so suddenly around his mouth, that he, too, shared her

suspicions. But not a word was spoken by either upon the subject

agitating them so powerfully. Melinda only said, "I must go home at

once--in the next train if possible," while Andy rejoined, "I am going

with you."

Melinda knew why he was going, and when at last they were on the way,

the sight of his honest-speaking face, glowing all over with eagerness

and joyful anticipations, kept her own spirits up, and made what she so

greatly hoped for seem absolutely certain. It was morning when they

arrived, and were driven rapidly through the streets toward home. The

house seemed very quiet; every window and shutter, so far as they could

see, was closed, and both experienced a terrible fear lest "the strange

woman" was gone. They could not wait for Hannah to open the door, and so

they went round to the basement, surprising Mrs. Dobson as she bent over

the fire, stirring the basin of gruel she was preparing for her patient.

"The strange woman" was not gone. She was raving mad, Mrs. Dobson said,

and talked the queerest things. "I've had the doctor, just as I knew you

would have done, had you been here," she said, "and he pronounced it

brain fever, brought on by fatigue, and some great excitement or

worriment. 'Pears like she thought she was divorced, or somebody was

divorced, for she was talking about it, and showing the ring on her

fourth finger. I hope Governor Markham won't mind it. 'Twas none of my

doings. She went there herself, and I first found her in the bed in that

room where nobody ever slept--the bride's room, I call it, you know."