That was what he said, as he bent over her, seeking to take in his own one of the feverish little hands locked so fast in those of Aunt Barbara.  She did know then, and remember, and her lip quivered in a grieved, disappointed way as she said, “Yes, Richard, I know now.  I am not at home, I’m here;” and the intonation of the voice as it uttered the word “here,” spoke volumes, and told Aunt Barbara just how homesick and weary and wretched her darling had been here.  She must not talk much, the physician said, and so with one hand in Richard’s and one in Aunt Barbara’s she fell away to sleep again, while the family stole out to their usual avocations, Mrs. Markham and Eunice to their baking, James and John to their work upon the farm, and Andy to his Bethel in the wood-house chamber, where he repeated:  “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel who has visited and redeemed his people,” and added at the conclusion the Gloria Patri, which he thought suitable for the occasion.

CHAPTER XVIII

DAYS OF CONVALESCENCE

They were very pleasant to Ethelyn, for with Aunt Barbara anticipating every want, and talking of Chicopee; she could not be very weary.  It was pleasant, too, having Richard home again, and Ethie was very soft and kind and amiable toward him; but she did not tell him of the letter she had commenced, or hint at the confession he longed to hear.  It would have been comparatively easy to write it, but with him there where she could look into his face and watch the dark expression which was sure to come into his eyes, it was hard to tell him that Frank Van Buren had held the first place in her affections, if indeed he did not hold it now.  She was not certain yet, though she hoped and tried to believe that Frank was nothing more than cousin now.  He surely ought not to be, with Nettie calling him her husband, while she too was a wife.  But so subtle was the poison which that unfortunate attachment had infused into her veins that she could not tell whether her nature was cleared of it or not, and so, though she asked forgiveness for having so literally kept her vow, and said that she did commence a letter to him, she kept back the most important part of all.  It was better to wait, she thought, until she could truly say, “I loved Frank Van Buren once, but now I love you far better than ever I did him.”

Had she guessed how much Richard knew, and how the knowledge was rankling in his bosom, she might have done differently.  But she took the course she thought the best, and the perfect understanding Richard had so ardently hoped for was not then arrived at.  For a time, however, there seemed to be perfect peace between them, and could Richard have forgotten Frank Van Buren’s words or even those of Ethie herself when her fever was on, he would have been supremely happy.  But to forget was impossible, and he often found himself wondering how much of Frank’s