“She nursed me carefully and tried to be kind, but I could see that my being there was a great annoyance to her.  Her husband had an aunt—­a rich, eccentric old lady—­who came sometimes to see me, and seemed interested in me.  Forgive me, auntie, if it was wrong.  I dropped the name of Markham and took yours, asking Abby to call me simply Miss Bigelow to her friends.  Her husband knew my real name, but to all others I was Adelaide Bigelow.  Old Mrs. Plum did not know I was married, for Abby was as anxious to keep the secret as I was myself.  She was going abroad, the rich aunt, and being a nervous invalid, she wanted some young, handy person as traveling companion.  So when I was better Abby asked if I was still resolved not to go home, and on learning that I was, she spoke of Mrs. Plum, and asked if I would go.  I caught at it eagerly, and in May I was sailing over the sea to France.  I wrote a few lines to Andy before I went, and I wanted to write to you, but I fancied you must be vexed and mortified, and I would not trouble you.

“Mrs. Plum was very nervous, and capricious, and exacting, and my life with her was not altogether an easy one.  At first, before we were accustomed to each other, it was terrible.  I suppose I have a high temper.  She thought so, and yet she could not do without me, for she was lame in her arms, and unable to help herself readily; besides that, I spoke the French language well enough to make myself understood, and so was necessary to her.  There were many excellent traits of character about her, and after a time I liked her very much, while she seemed to think of me as a willful but rather ‘nicish’ kind of a daughter.  She took me everywhere, even into Russia and Palestine; but the last two years of our stay abroad were spent in Southern France, where the days were one long bright summer dream, and I should have been so happy if the past had been forgotten.”

“And did you hear nothing from us in all that time?” Aunt Barbara asked, and Ethelyn replied:  “Nothing from Richard, no; and nothing direct from you.  I requested as a favor that Mrs. Plum should order the Boston Traveller and Springfield Republican to be sent to her address in Paris, which we made our headquarters.  I knew you took both these papers, and if anything happened to you, it would appear in their columns.  I saw the death of Col.  Markham, and after that I used to grow so faint and cold, for fear I might find yours.  I came across a New York paper, too, and saw that Aunt Van Buren had arrived at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, knowing then that she was just as gay as ever.  Richard’s name I never saw; neither did Abby know anything about him..  I called at her house yesterday.  She has seven children now—­five born since I went away—­and her women’s rights have given place to theories with regard to soothing syrups and baby-jumpers, and the best means of keeping one child quiet while she dresses the other.  Mrs. Plum died six weeks ago—­died in Paris;