There was nothing in Davenport like the “governor’s house,” and the people watched it curiously as it went rapidly up.  There was a suite of rooms which they called Ethelyn’s, and to the arrangement and adorning of these Richard gave his whole attention, sparing nothing which could make them beautiful and attractive, and lavishing so much expense upon them that strangers came to inspect and comment upon them, wondering why he took so much pains, and guessing, as people will, that he was contemplating a second marriage as soon as a divorce could be obtained from his runaway wife.

The house was finished at last, and Richard took possession, installing Melinda as housekeeper, and feeling how happy he should be if only Ethie were there.  Somehow he expected her now.  Andy’s prayers would certainly be answered even if his own were not, for he, too, had begun to pray, feeling, at times, that God was slow to hear, as weeks and weeks went by and still Ethie did not come.  “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick,” and the weary waiting told upon his bodily health, which began to fail so rapidly that people said “Governor Markham was going into a decline,” and the physicians urged a change of air, and Mr. Townsend, who came in May for a day at Davenport, recommended him strongly to try what Clifton Springs, in Western New York, could do for him—­the Clifton, whose healing waters and wonderful power to cure were famed from the shores of the Atlantic to the Californian hills.

CHAPTER XXIX

AFTER YEARS OF WAITING

The weather in Chicopee that spring was as capricious as the smiles of the most spoiled coquette could ever be.  The first days of April were warm, and balmy, and placid, without a cloud upon the sky or a token of storm in the air.  The crocuses and daffodils showed their heads in the little borders by Aunt Barbara’s door, and Uncle Billy Thompson sowed the good woman a bed of lettuce, and peas, and onions, which came up apace, and were the envy of the neighbors.  Taking advantage of the warmth and the sunshine, and Uncle Billy’s being there to whip her carpets, Aunt Barbara even began her house cleaning, commencing at the chambers first—­the rooms which since the last “reign of terror,” had only been used when a clergyman spent Sunday there, and when Mrs. Dr. Van Buren was up for a few days from Boston, with Nettie and the new girl baby, which, like Melinda’s, bore the name of Ethelyn.  Still they must be renovated, and cleaned, and scrubbed, lest some luckless moth were hiding there, or some fly-speck perchance had fallen upon the glossy paint.  Aunt Barbara was not an untidy house-cleaner—­one who tosses the whole house into chaos, and simultaneous with the china from the closet, brings up a basket of bottles from the cellar to be washed and rinsed.  She took one room at a time, settling as she went along, so that her house never was in that state of dire