Ethelyn had not been heard from, and search as he would, Richard could find no trace of her whatever.  She had effectually covered her tracks, so that not even a clew to her whereabouts was found.  No one had seen her, or any person like her, and the suspense and anxiety of those three—­Richard, Aunt Barbara, and Andy—­who loved her so well, was getting to be terrible, when there came to Andy a letter—­a letter in the dear, familiar handwriting.  A few lines only, and they read: 

“New York, May—.

“My darling Andy:  I know you have not forgotten me, and I am superstitious enough to fancy that you are with me in spirit constantly.  I do not know why I am writing this to you, but something impels me to do it, and tell you that I am well.  I cannot say happy yet, for the sundering of every earthly relation made too deep a wound for me not to feel the pain for months and may be for years.  I have employment, though—­constant employment—­that helps me to bear, and keeps me from dwelling too much upon the past.

“Andy, I want you to tell Richard that in thinking over my married life I see many places where I did very wrong and tried him terribly.  I am sorry for that, and hope he will forgive me.  I wish I had never crossed his path and left so dark a shadow on his life.

“Tell your mother that I know now I did not try to make her like me.  Perhaps I could not if I had; but I might at least have tried.  I am sorry I troubled her so much.

“Tell Melinda Jones, and James and John, that I remember all their kindness, and thank them so much.  And Eunice, too.  She was good to me, always.  And oh!  Andy, please get word somehow to dear Aunt Barbara that her lost Ethie is well, and so sorry to give her pain, as I know I do.  I would write to her myself, but I am afraid she blames me for going away and bringing a kind of disgrace upon her and Aunt Van Buren.  I cannot say yet I am sorry for the step I took, and, until I am sorry I cannot write to Aunt Barbara.  But you must tell her for me how much I love her, and how every night of my life I dream I am back in the dear old home under the maples, and see upon the hills the swelling buds and leaves of spring.  Tell her not to forget me, and be sure that wherever I am or whatever may befall me, she will be remembered as the dearest, most precious memory of my life.  Next to her Andy, you come; my darling Andy, who was always so kind to me when my heart was aching so hard.

“Good-by, Andy, good-by.”

This was the letter which Andy read with streaming eyes, while around him, on tiptoe, to look over his and each other’s shoulders, stood the entire family, all anxious and eager to know what the runaway had written.  It was a very conciliatory letter, and it left a sadly pleasant impression on those who read it, making even the mother wipe her eyes with the corner of her apron as she washed her supper dishes in the sink and whispered to herself, “She didn’t trouble me so very much more than I did her.  I might have done different, too.”