“O Aunt Hepsy, don’t say any more,” pleaded Lucy, her eyes growing dim.  “I’m so glad I’ve been sick, because you’ve learned to love me a little.”

So the barrier was broken down, and in the ensuing days these two became very dear to each other; and Lucy grew to understand Aunt Hepsy, and to see how much good there lay beneath her grim exterior.  The door of Aunt Hepsy’s heart had long been locked, and like other unused things, had grown rusty on its hinges.  But Lucy had found the key, and entered triumphantly at last.

XIV.

A great change.

You will be wondering what Tom had been about during his sister’s illness; but he was still in ignorance of it, his friends thinking it best to wait till the crisis was past.  It fell to Aunt Hepsy’s lot to send the news, and her letter was such a curiosity in its way that I cannot do better than set it down just as it was.

“Thankfulrest, April 18th, 18—­.

“MY DEAR NEPHEW,—­I daresay you’ll wonder to hear from me, an’ will maybe feel skeered; so, to relieve you, I may as well say at once that Lucy’s been sick, very sick, but she’s getting round nicely now, thank the Lord.  She is in bed yet, and I’m writing this beside her.  She sends her love, and says she’ll write to-morrow.  I guess I’ll let her do it in about a month.  I want to ask you to forgive me for being so hard on you when you lived here.  I hope you don’t bear your old aunt any grudge.  Lucy, God bless her, won’t hear me abuse myself, so it’s a relief to do it to you, though you are a boy.  I keep that picter you drew of me that I slapped you for, an’ I’ll look at it when I feel my pesky temper gettin’ up.  I suppose ye’ll be so took up with your paintin’ ye couldn’t never think of coming back to Thankful Rest.  It wouldn’t be good for you, if you’re getting on any way with Mr. Robert Keane.  But you’ll come right away in summer, an’ see what a different place Lucy has made of Thankful Rest, an’ how precious she is to your uncle an’ me.  I guess she’s one of the Lord’s messengers, sent to do what all the preachin’ in the world couldn’t.  I reckon I’ll finish up.  It has took me an hour to write this, I’m so slow with the pen.  Give my respects to Mr. Robert Keane; and when he comes to Thankful Rest in summer, maybe he’ll get a better welcome than he got before.  So no more at present.  From your affectionate aunt,

“HEPSEY”

That letter reached Boston Avenue in the evening, when Tom was poring over a book of instructions for young artists.  He was in his own sanctum, which Mr. Keane had given him when he came—­a tiny apartment next the artist’s studio, and commanding from its window the finest view in Philadelphia.  Tom seized the letter from the servant’s hand.  He had written twice to Lucy, and was anxiously wondering at her delay in answering, for Lucy had always been a faithful and punctual correspondent.