Ethelyn's Mistake

"I am not hungry," he said, "and it is rest enough to be with Ethelyn."

Much he wondered where she had come from, and Melinda repeated all

Ethelyn had said which would throw any light upon the subject.

"She has talked of the Nile, and St. Petersburg, and the Hellespont, and

the ship which was bringing her to Richard, and of Chicopee, but it was

difficult telling how much was real," Melinda said, adding, "She talked

of Clifton, too; and were it possible, I should say she came direct from

there, but that could not be. You would have known if she had been

there. What was the number of your room?"

"102," Richard replied, a new revelation dawning upon him, while Melinda

rejoined: "That is the number she talks about--that and 101. Can it be that she

was there?"

Richard was certain of it. The Miss Bigelow who had interested him so

much lay there in his arms, his own wife, who was, if possible, tenfold

dearer to him now than when he first held her as his bride. He knew she

was very sick, but she would not die, he said to himself. God had not

restored her to him just to take her away again, and make his desolation

more desolate. Ethie would live. And surely if love, and nursing, and

tender care were of any avail to save the life which at times seemed

fluttering on the very verge of the grave, Ethelyn would live. Nothing

was spared which could avail to save her, and even the physician, who

had all along done what he could, seemed to redouble his efforts when he

ascertained who his patient was.

Great was the surprise, and numerous the remarks and surmises of the

citizens, when it was whispered abroad that the strange woman lying so

sick in the governor's house was no other than the governor's wife,

about whom the people had speculated so much. Nor was it long ere the

news went to Camden, stirring up the people there, and bringing Mrs.

Miller at once to Davenport, where she stayed at a hotel until such time

as she could be admitted to Ethelyn's presence.

Mrs. Markham, senior, was washing windows when Tim Jones brought her the

letter bearing the Davenport postmark. Melinda had purposely abstained

from writing home until Richard came; and so the letter was in his

handwriting, which his mother recognized at once.

"Why, it's from Richard!" she exclaimed. "I thought he wouldn't stay

long at Clifton. I never did believe in swashin' all the time. A bath in

the tin washbasin does me very well," and the good woman wiped her

window leisurely, and even put it back and fastened the side-slat in its

place before she sat down to see what Richard had written.