“H.  Clifford.”

“Thank Heaven for that!” was Richard’s exclamation as in the first revulsion of feeling he sprang from his chair, while every feature of his face was irradiated with joy.

“What is it, Dick?  Is Ethie found?  I knew she would be.  I’ve prayed for it fifty times to-day, and I had faith that God would hear,” Andy said, the great tears rolling down his smooth, round face as he gave vent to his joy.

But Andy’s faith was to be put to a stronger test, and his countenance fell a little when Richard explained the nature of the letter.  Ethie was not found; she was only proved innocent of the terrible thing Richard had feared for her, and in being proven innocent, she was for a moment almost wholly restored to his favor.  She would come back some time.  She could not mean to leave him forever.  She was only doing it for a scare, and to punish him for what he did that night.  He deserved punishment, too, he thought, for he was pretty hard on her, and as he surely had been punished in all he had suffered during the last forty-eight hours, he would, when she came back, call everything even between them, and begin anew.

This was Richard’s reasoning; and that night he slept soundly, dreaming that Ethie had returned, and on her knees was suing for his forgiveness, while her voice was broken with tears and choking sobs.  As a man and husband who had been deserted, it was his duty to remain impassive a few moments, while Ethie atoned fully for her misdeeds:  then he would forgive her, and so he waited an instant, and while he waited he woke to find only Andy, with whom he was sleeping, kneeling by the bedside, with the wintry moonlight falling on his upturned face, as he prayed for the dear sister Ethie, whose steps had “mewandered” so far away.

“Don’t let any harm come to her; don’t let anybody look at her for bad, but keep her—­keep her—­keep her in safety, and send her back to poor old Dick and me, and make Dick use her better than I ’most know he has, for he’s got the Markham temper in him, and everybody knows what that is.”

This was Andy’s prayer, taken from no book or printed form, but the outpouring of his simple, honest heart, and Richard heard it, wincing a little as Andy thus made confession for him of his own sins; but he did not pray himself, though he was glad of Andy’s prayers, and placed great hopes upon them.  God would hear Andy, and if he did not send Ethie back at once, he would surely keep her from harm.

The next day Richard went back to Camden.  Melinda Jones had suggested that possibly Ethie left a letter, or note, which would explain her absence, and Richard caught at it eagerly, wondering he had not thought of it before, and feeling very impatient to be off, even though he dreaded to meet some of his old friends, and be questioned as to the whereabouts of his wife.  He did not know that the story of his desertion was already there—­Mrs. Amsden having gone to