There were flecks of snow upon the face and on the smooth brown hair and travel-soiled dress; clogs of snow, too, upon the tired feet—­the little feet Andy had admired so much; but the traveler kept on bravely, till the friendly light shone out beneath the maples, and then she paused, and leaning for a moment against the fence, sobbed aloud, but not sadly or bitterly.  She was too near home for that—­too near the darling Aunt Barbara, who did not hear gate or door unclose, or the step in the dark hall.  But when the knob of the sitting room door moved, she heard it, and, without turning her head, called out, “What is it, Betty?  I thought you in bed an hour ago.”

The supposed Betty did not reply, but stood a brief instant taking in every feature in the room, from the two apples roasting on the hearth to the little woman sitting with her fingers on the page where possibly Ethie’s death ought to be recorded.  Aunt Barbara was waiting for Betty to answer, and she turned her head at last, just as a low, rapid step glided across the floor, and a voice, which thrilled every vain, first with a sudden fear, and then with a joy unspeakable, said, “Aunt Barbara, it’s I. It’s Ethie, come back to you again.  Is she welcome here?”

Was she welcome?  Answer, the low cry, and gasping sob, and outstretched arms, which held the wanderer in so loving an embrace, while a rain of tears fell upon the dear head from which the bonnet had fallen back as Ethelyn sank upon her knees before Aunt Barbara.  Neither could talk much for a few moments.  Certainly not Aunt Barbara, who sat bewildered and stupefied while Ethelyn, more composed, removed her hat, and cloak, and overshoes, and shook out the folds of her damp dress; and then drawing a little covered stool to Aunt Barbara’s side, sat down upon it, and leaning her elbows on Aunt Barbara’s lap, looked up in her face, with the old, mischievous, winning smile, and said, “Auntie, have you forgiven your Ethie for running away?”

Then it began to seem real again—­began to seem as if the last six years were blotted out, and things restored to what they were when Ethie was wont to sit at her aunt’s feet as she was sitting now.  There was this difference, however; the bright, round, rosy face, which used to look so flushed, and eager, and radiant, and assured, was changed, and the one confronting Aunt Barbara now was pale, and thin, and worn, and there were lines across the brow, and the eyes were heavy and tired, and a little uncertain and anxious in their expression as they scanned the sweet old face above them.  Aunt Barbara saw it all, and this, if nothing else, would have brought entire pardon even had she been inclined to withhold it, which she was not.  Ethie was back again, and that was enough for her.  She would not chide or blame her ever so little, and her warm, loving hands took the thin white face and held it while she kissed the parted lips, the blue-veined forehead, and the hollow cheeks, whispering:  “My own darling.  I am so glad to have you back.  I have been so sad without you, and mourned for you so much, fearing you were dead.  Where has my darling been that none of us could find you?”