Aside from the rat in the wall, things were mostly as Aunt Barbara could wish them to be.  The vinegar had made beautifully.  There was fresh yeast, brewed the day before, in the jug.  The milk-pans were bright and sweet; the cellar door was fastened; the garden was looking its best; the silver was all up the scuttle-hole, Betty climbing up and risking her neck every morning to see if it were safe; the stoop and steps were scrubbed, the roof was swept, and both the cats, Tabby and Jim, were so fat that they could scarcely walk as they came up to greet their mistress.  Only two mishaps Betty had to relate.  Jim had eaten up the canary bird, and she had broken the kitchen tongs.  She had also failed to accomplish as much sewing as she had hoped to do, and the pile of work was not greatly diminished.

“There is so many steps to take when a body is alone, and with you gone I was more particular,” she said, by way of apology, as she confessed to the rat, and the canary bird, and the kitchen tongs, and the small amount of sewing she had done.

These were all the points wherein she had been remiss, and Aunt Barbara was content, and even happy, as she laid aside her Stella shawl and brown Neapolitan, and out in her pleasant dining room sat down to the hasty meal which Betty improvised, of bread and butter, Dutch cheese, baked apples, and huckleberry pie, with a cup of delicious tea, such as Aunt Barbara did not believe the people of New York had ever tasted.  Most certainly those who were fortunate enough to board at first-class boarding-houses had not; and as she sipped her favorite beverage with Tabby on her dress and the criminal Tim in her lap, his head occasionally peering over the table, she felt comforted and rested, and thankful for her cozy home, albeit it lay like a heavy weight upon her that her trouble had been for nothing, and no tidings of Ethie had been obtained.

She wrote to Richard the next day, of her unsuccessful search, and asked what they should do next.

“We can do nothing but wait and hope,” Richard wrote in reply, but Aunt Barbara added to it, “we can pray;” and so all through the autumn, when the soft, hazy days which Ethie had loved so well kept the lost one forever in mind, Aunt Barbara waited and hoped, and prayed and watched for Ethie’s coming home, feeling always a sensation of expectancy when the Western whistle sounded and the Western train went thundering through the town; and when the hack came up from the depot and did not stop at her door, she said to herself, “She would walk up, maybe,” and then waiting again she would watch from her window and look far up the quiet street, where the leaves of crimson and gold were lying upon the walk.  No Ethie was to be seen.  Then as the days grew shorter and the nights fell earlier upon the Chicopee hills, and the bleak winds blew across the meadow, and the waters of the river looked blue and dark and cold in the November light, she said:  “She will be here sure by Christmas.  She always liked that day best,” and her fingers were busy with the lamb’s wool stockings she was knitting for her darling.