“I suppose not,” said he, moodily; “I wish she could!  But I shall give her a deed of a piece of New Hampshire land which they may get some good of.  God knows I hope she may,” and he left the room, turning back, however, to add, “She is to sleep here to-night.  I could not have her go to the hotel.  But you need take no trouble about her.”

“I should think not, Stephen Potter,” exclaimed Mrs. Potter, sitting bolt upright in her angry astonishment; “I never heard of such impudence as her expecting”—­

“She expected nothing.  I obliged her to stay,” interrupted Stephen, and was gone.

Mrs. Potter’s first impulse was to go and order the girl out of her house.  But she thought better of it.  She was often afraid of her husband at this time; she dimly suspected that he was on the verge of ruin.  So she sank back into her chair, buried herself in her novel, and soon forgot the interruption.

Draxy’s breakfast and dinner were carried to her room, and every provision made for her comfort.  Stephen Potter’s servants obeyed him always.  No friend of the family could have been more scrupulously served than was Draxy Miller.  The man-servant carried her bag to the station, touched his hat to her as she stepped on board the train, and returned to the house to say in the kitchen:  “Well, I don’t care what she come for; she was a real lady, fust to last, an’ that’s more than Mr. Potter’s got for a wife, I tell you.”

When Stephen Potter went into his library after bidding Draxy good-by, he found on the table a small envelope addressed to him.  It held this note:—­

“Mr. Potter:—­I would not take the paper [the word ‘money’ had been scratched out and the word ‘paper’ substituted] for myself; but I think I ought to for my father, because it was a true debt, and he is an old man now, and not strong.

“I am very sorry for you, Mr. Potter, and I hope you will become happy again.  Draxy Miller.”

Draxy had intended to write, “I hope you will be ‘good’ again,” but her heart failed her.  “Perhaps he will understand that ‘happy’ means good,” she said, and so wrote the gentler phrase.  Stephen Potter did understand; and the feeble outreachings which, during the few miserable years more of his life, he made towards uprightness, were partly the fruit of Draxy Miller’s words.

Draxy’s journey home was uneventful.  She was sad and weary.  The first person she saw on entering the house was her father.  He divined in an instant that she had been unsuccessful.  “Never mind, little daughter,” he said, gleefully, “I am not disappointed; I knew you would not get it, but I thought the journey ’d be a good thing for you, may be.”

“But I have got something, father dear,” said Draxy; “only I’m afraid it is not worth much.”

“’Taint likely to be if Steve Potter gave it,” said Reuben, as Draxy handed him the paper.  He laughed scornfully as soon as he looked at it.  “’Taint worth the paper it’s writ on,” said he, “and he knew it; if he hain’t looked the land up all these years, of course ’twas sold at vendue long ago.”