“I thank Thee, Father of mercies, more than I can tell, for it is Ethie—­it is Ethie—­it is Ethie, our own darling Ethie, come back to us again; and now, dear Lord, bring old Dick home at once, and let us have a time of it.”

Ethie’s eyes were opened and fixed inquiringly upon Andy.  Something in his voice and manner must have penetrated through the mists of delirium clouding her brain, for the glimmer of a smile played round her lips, and her hands moved slowly toward him; then they went back again to her throat and tugged at the nightcap strings which good Mrs. Dobson had tied in a hard knot by way of keeping the cap upon the refractory head.  Ethie did not fancy the cap any more than Andy, who, guessing her wishes, lent his own assistance to the untying of the strings.

“You don’t like the pesky thing on your head, making you look so like a scarecrow, do you?” he said gently, as with a jerk he broke the strings and then threw the discarded cap upon the floor.

Ethie seemed to know him for a moment, and, “Kiss me, Andy,” came feebly from her lips.  Winding his arms about her, Andy did kiss her many times, while his tears dropped upon her face and moistened the long hair, which, relieved from its confinement, fell in dark masses about her face, making her look more like the Ethelyn of old than she had at first.

“Was there a divorce?” she whispered, and Andy, in great perplexity, was wondering what she meant, when Melinda’s step came along the hall, and Melinda entered the room together with Mrs. Dobson.

“It’s she—­herself!  It’s our own Ethie!” Andy exclaimed, standing back a little from the bed, but still holding the feverish hand which had grasped his so firmly, as if in that touch alone was rest and security.

“I thought so,” and with a satisfied nod Mrs. Dobson put down her bowl of gruel and went down to communicate the startling news to Hannah, who nearly lost her senses in the first moment of surprise.

“Do you know me, Ethie?” Melinda asked, but in the bright, rolling eyes there was no ray of reason; only the lip quivered slightly, and Ethie said so sadly, so beseechingly, “Don’t send me away, when I am so tired and sorry.”

She seemed to have a vague idea where she was and who was with her, clinging closer to Andy, as if surest of him, and once when he bent over her, she suddenly wound her arms around his neck and whispered, “Don’t leave me—­it’s nice to know you are with me; and don’t let them put that dreadful thing on my head again.  Aunt Van Buren said I was a fright.  Will Richard think so, too?”

This was the only time she mentioned her husband, though she talked of Clifton and Mrs. Pry, and the story of the divorce, and the dear little chapel where she said God always came, bidding Andy kneel down and pray just as they were doing there when the summer day drew to a close.

“We must send for Dick,” Andy said; “but don’t let’s tell the whole; let’s leave something to his imagination;” and so the telegram which went to Governor Markham read simply:  “Come home immediately.  Don’t wait for a single train.”