Richard had heard of Miss Bigelow’s sudden departure, and had been surprised to find how much he missed the light footsteps and the rustling sound which had come from No. 101.  He was a good deal interested in Miss Bigelow, and when Mary told him of her leaving so unexpectedly and appearing so excited, there had for a moment flashed over him the wild thought, “Could it be?” No, it could not, he said; but he questioned Mary as to the appearance of the lady in No. 101.  “Was she very handsome, with full, rosy cheeks, and eyes of chestnut brown?”

“She was rather pretty,” Mary said; “but her face was thin and pale, and her eyes, she guessed, were black.”

It was not Ethie, then—­Richard had never believed it was—­but he felt sorry that she was gone, whoever she might be, and Clifton was not so pleasant to him now as it had been at first.  He was much better, and had been once to the chapel, when up the three flights of stairs Perry came and along the hall till he stopped at Room No. 102.  There was a telegram for Richard, who took it with trembling hands and read it with a blur before his eyes and something at his heart like a blow, but which was born of a sudden hope that, after many days and months and years of waiting, God had deigned to be merciful.  But only for a brief moment did this hope buoy him up.  It could not be, he said; and yet, as he made his hasty preparations for his journey, he found the possibility constantly recurring to his mind, while the nearer he came to Davenport the more probable it seemed, and the more impatient he grew at every little delay.  There were several upon the road, and once, only fifty miles from home, there was a detention of four hours.  But the long train moved at last, and just as the sun was setting the cars stopped in the Davenport depot, and as the passengers alighted the loungers whispered to each other, “Governor Markham has come home.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

RICHARD AND ETHELYN

Arrived at Davenport, and so near his home that he could discern its roofs and chimneys, the hope which had kept Richard up all through his rapid journey began to give way, and he hardly knew what or whom he expected to find, as he went up the steps to his house and rang the door bell.  Certainly not Andy—­he had not thought of him—­and his pulse quickened with a feeling of eagerness and hope renewed when he caught sight of his brother’s beaming face and felt the pressure of his broad hand.  In his delight Andy kissed his brother two or three times during the interval it took to get him through the hall into the reception room, where they were alone.  Arrived there, Andy fell to capering across the floor, while Richard looked on, puzzled to decide whether his weak brother had gone wholly daft or not.  Recollecting himself at last, and assuming a more sober attitude, Andy came close to him and whispered: 

“Dick, you ought to be thankful, so thankful and glad that God has been kind at last and heard our prayers, just as I always told you he would.  Guess who is upstairs, ravin’ crazy by spells, and quiet as a Maltese kitten the rest of the time?  I’ll bet, though, you’ll never guess, it is so strange?  Try, now—­who do you think it is?”