She did not say who had come, but John knew, and his eyes were dim with tears as he took the letter from his mother’s hand, and read it, walking beside her to the house.

“I presume they doctor her that silly fashion, with little pills the size of a small pin head.  Melinda is so set in her way.  She ought to have some good French brandy if they want to save her.  I’d better go myself and see to it,” Mrs. Markham said, after they had reached the house, and John, at her request, had read the letter aloud.

John did not quite fancy his mother’s going, particularly as Richard had said nothing about it, but Mrs. Markham was determined.

“It was a good way to make it up with Ethelyn, to be there when she come to,” she thought, and so, leaving her house-cleaning to itself, and John to his bread and milk, of which he never tired, she packed a little traveling bag, and taking with her a bottle of brandy, started on the next train for Davenport, where she had never been.

Aunt Barbara was not cleaning house.  She was cutting dried caraway seed in the garden, and thinking of Ethie, wondering why she did not write, and hoping that when she did she would say that she had talked with Richard, and made the matter up.  Ever since hearing that he was at Clifton, in the next room to Ethie, Aunt Barbara had counted upon a speedy reconciliation, and done many things with a direct reference to that reconciliation.  The best chamber was kept constantly aired, with bouquets of flowers in it, in case the happy pair, “as good as just married,” should come suddenly upon her.  Ethie’s favorite loaf cake was constantly kept on hand, and when Betty suggested that they should let Uncle Billy cut down that caraway seed, “and heave it away,” the good soul objected, thinking there was no telling what would happen, and it was well enough to save such things as anise and caraway.  So, in her big cape bonnet, she was cutting her branches of herbs, when Charlie Howard looked over the garden gate with “Got a letter for you.”

“It ain’t from her.  It’s from—­why, it’s from Richard, and he is in Davenport,” Aunt Barbara exclaimed, as she sat down in a garden chair to read the letter which was not from Ethie.

Richard did not say directly to her that she must come, but Aunt Barbara felt an innate conviction that her presence would not be disagreeable, even if Ethie lived, while “if she died,” and Aunt Barbara’s heart gave a great throb as she thought it, “if Ethie died she must be there,” and so her trunk was packed for the third time in Ethie’s behalf, and the next day’s train from Boston carried the good woman on her way to Davenport.

CHAPTER XXXIX

RECONCILIATION