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About one Frank came home from the young men’s association which he attended so often, his head fuller of champagne and brandy than it was of sense, and every good feeling blunted with dissipation.  But the Nettie whose pale face had been to him so constant a reproach was gone forever, and only the lifeless form was left of what he once called his wife.  She was buried in Mount Auburn, and they made her a grander funeral than they had given to her first-born, and then the household want on the same as ever until Mrs. Van Buren conceived the idea of visiting her niece, Mrs. Gov.  Markham, and taking her grandchild with her.  For the sake of the name she was sure the little girl would be welcome, as well as for the sake of the dead mother.  And she was welcome, more so even than the stately aunt, whose deep mourning robes seemed to throw a kind of shadowy gloom over the house which she found so handsome, and elegant, and perfectly kept that she would willingly have spent the entire winter there.  She was not invited to do this, and some time in January she went back to her home, looking out on Boston Common, but not until she had eaten a Christmas dinner with Mrs. Markham, senior, at whose house the whole family were assembled on that occasion.

There was much good cheer and merriment there, and Ethie, in her rich crimson silk which Richard had surprised her with, was the queen of all, her wishes deferred to, and her tastes consulted with a delicacy and deference which no one could fail to observe.  And Eunice Plympton was there, too, waiting upon the table with Andy, who insisted upon standing at the back of Ethie’s chair, just as he had seen the waiters do in Camden, and would have his mother ring the silver bell when anything was wanted.  It was a happy family reunion, and a meet harbinger of the peaceful days in store for our heroine—­days which came and went so fast, until winter melted into spring, and the spring budded into blushing summer, and the summer faded into the golden autumn, and the autumn floated with feathery snowflakes into the chilly winter and December came again, bringing another meeting of the Markhams.  But this time it was at the governor’s house in Davenport, and another was added to the number—­a pretty little waxen thing, which all through the elaborate dinner slept quietly in its crib, and then in the evening, when the gas was lighted in the parlors, and Mr. Townsend was there in his gown, behaved most admirably, and lay very still in its father Richard’s arms, until it was transferred from his to those of the clergyman, who in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost baptized it “Daisy Adelaide Grant.”