It had been very delightful, waking up in the dear old room and seeing Betty’s kind face bending over her—­Betty, who had heard of her young mistress’ return with a gush of glad tears, and then at once bethought herself as to what there was nice for the wanderer to eat.  Just as she used to do when Ethie was a young lady at home, Betty had carried her pan of coals and kindlings into the chamber where Ethie was lying, and kneeling on the hearth had made the cheerfulest of fires, while Ethie, with half-closed eyes, watched her dreamily, thinking how nice it was to be cared for again, and conscious only of a vague feeling of delicious rest and quiet, which grew almost into positive happiness as she counted the days it would take for Aunt Barbara’s letter to go to Iowa and for Richard to answer it in person, as he surely would if all which Aunt Barbara had said was true.

Ethie did not quite know if she loved him.  She had thought of him so much during the last two years, and now, when he seemed so near, she longed to see him again—­to hear his voice and look into his eyes.  They were handsome eyes as she remembered them; kindly and pleasant, too—­at least they had been so to her, save on that dreadful night, the memory of which always made her shiver and grow faint.  It seemed a dream now—­a far-off, unhappy dream—­which she would fain forget just as she wanted Richard to forget her foibles and give her another chance.  She had bidden Aunt Barbara write to say she was there, and so after the tempting breakfast, which had been served in her room, and which she had eaten sitting up in bed, because Betty insisted that it should be so—­and she was glad to be petted and humored and made into a comfortable invalid—­Aunt Barbara brought her writing materials into the room, and bidding Ethie lie still and rest herself, began the letter to Richard.

But only the date and name were written, when Betty, coming in with a few geranium leaves and a white fuchsia which she had purloined from her mistress’ house plants, announced Mrs. Van Buren’s arrival, and the pleasant morning was at an end.  Mrs. Dr. Van Buren had come up from Boston to borrow money from her sister for the liquidation of certain debts contracted by her son, and which she had not the ready means to meet.  Aunt Barbara had accommodated her once or twice before, saying to her as she signed the check, “That money in the bank was put there for Ethie, but no one knows if she will ever need it, so it may as well do somebody some good.”

It had done good by relieving Mrs. Van Buren of a load of harassing care, for money was not as plenty with her as formerly, and now she wanted more.  She was looking rather old and worn, and her cloak was last year’s fashion, but good enough for Chicopee, she reflected, as she hurried into the house and stamped the muddy, melting snow from her feet.

Utter amazement seemed the prevailing sensation in her mind when she learned that Ethelyn had returned, and then her selfishness began to suggest that possibly Barbara’s funds, saved for Ethie, might not now be as accessible for Frank.  She was glad, though, to see her niece, but professed herself shocked at her altered appearance.