Richard knew she was not there-at least all the probabilities were against it; and still he clung to the vague hope that Andy would bring him some good news, and his thoughts went after the brother whose every breath was a prayer, as he galloped over the snowy ground toward Mrs. Amsden’s. They were early risers there, and notwithstanding the sun was just coming up the eastern sky, the family were at breakfast when Andy’s horse stopped before their gate, and Andy himself knocked at their door for admission. Andy’s faith was great-so great that, in answer to his petitions, he fully expected to see Ethie herself at the table, when the door was opened, and he caught a view of the occupants of the dining room; but no Ethie was there, nor had been, as they said, in answer to his eager questionings.

“What made you think she was here? When did she go away? Was she intending to visit me?” Mrs. Amsden asked.

But Andy, while praying that Ethie might be there, had also asked that if she were not, “he needn’t make a fool of himself, nor let the cat out of the bag,” and he didn’t; he merely replied:

“She left home a few days ago. Dick was in St. Louis, and it was lonesome stayin’ alone. I’ll find her, most likely, as she is somewhere else.”

Andy was in his saddle now, and his fleet steed fled swiftly along toward home, where they waited so anxiously for him, Richard tottering to the window so as to read his fate in Andy’s tell-tale face.

“She is not there. I knew she was not. She has gone with that villain.”

Richard did not mean to say that last. It dropped from him mechanically, and in an instant his mother seized upon it, demanding what he meant, and who was the villain referred to. Richard tried to put her off, but she would know what he meant, and so to her and his three brothers he told as little as he could and make any kind of a story, and as he talked his heart hardened toward Ethie, who had done him this wrong. It seemed a great deal worse when put into words, and the whole expression of Richard’s face was changed when he had finished speaking, while he was conscious of feeling much as he did that night when he denounced Ethie so terribly to her face. “Had it been a man, or half a man, or anybody besides that contemptible puppy, it would not seem so bad; but to forsake me for him!” Richard said, while the great ridges deepened in his forehead, and a hard, black look crept into his eyes, and about the corners of his mouth. He was terrible in his anger, which grew upon him until even his mother stood appalled at the fearful expression of his face.

“He would do nothing to call her back,” he said, when James suggested the propriety of trying in a quiet way to ascertain where she had gone. “She had chosen her own path to ruin, and she might tread it for all of him. He would not put forth a hand to save her and if she came back, he never could forgive her.”

Richard was walking up and down the room, white with rage, as he said this, and Andy, cowering in a corner, was looking on and listening. He did not speak until Richard declared his incapacity for forgiving Ethie, when he started up, and confronting the angry man, said to him rebukingly:

“Hold there, old Dick! You have gone a leetle too far. If God can forgive you and me all them things we’ve done, which he knows about, and other folks don’t, you can, or or’to forgive sister Ethie, let her sin be what it may. Ethie was young, Dick, and childlike, and so pretty, too, and I ’most know you aggravated her some, if you talked to her as you feel now; and then, too, Dick, and mother, and all of you, I don’t care who says it, or thinks it, it’s a big lie! Ethie never went off with a man-never! I know she didn’t. She wasn’t that kind. I’ll swear to it in the court. I won’t hear anybody say that about her. I’ll fight ’em, first, even if ’twas my own kin who did it!” And in his excitement, Andy began to shove back his wrist-bands from his strong wrists, as if challenging someone to the fight he had threatened.

Andy was splendid in his defense of Ethie, and both James and John stepped up beside him, showing their adhesion to the cause he pleaded so well. Ethie might have ran away, but she had surely gone alone, they said, and their advice was that Richard should follow her as soon as possible. But Richard would not listen to such a proposition now, and quietly aided and abetted by his mother, he declared his intention of “letting her alone.” She had chosen her course, he said, and she must abide by it. “If she has gone with that villain”-and Richard ground his teeth together-“she can never again come back to me. If she has not gone with him, and chooses to return, I do not say the door is shut against her.”

Richard seemed very determined and unrelenting, and, knowing how useless it was to reason with him when in so stern a mood, his brothers gave up the contest, Andy thinking within himself how many, many times a day he should pray for Ethie that she might come back again. Richard would not return to Camden that day, he said. He could not face his acquaintance there until the first shock was over and they were a little accustomed to thinking of the calamity which had fallen upon him. So he remained with his mother, sitting near the window which looked out upon the railroad track over which Ethie had gone. What his thoughts were none could fathom, save as they were expressed by the dark, troubled expression of his face, which showed how much he suffered. Perhaps he blamed himself as he went over again the incidents of that fatal night when he kept Ethelyn from the masquerade; but if he did, no one was the wiser for it, and so the first long day wore on, and the night fell again upon the inmates of the farmhouse. The darkness was terrible to Richard, for it shut out from his view that strip of road which seemed to him a part of Ethie. She had been there last, and possibly looked up at the old home-her first home after her marriage; possibly, too, she had thought of him. She surely did, if, as Andy believed, she was alone in her flight. If not alone, he wanted no thoughts of hers, and Richard’s hands were clenched as he moved from the darkening window, and took his seat behind the stove, where he sat the entire evening, like some statue of despair, brooding over his ruined hopes.

The next day brought the Joneses-Melinda and Tim-the latter of whom had heard from Mrs. Amsden’s son of Andy’s strange errand there. There was something in the wind, and Melinda came to learn what it was. Always communicative to the Jones family, Mrs. Markham told the story without reserve, not even omitting the Van Buren part, but asking as a precaution that Melinda would not spread a story which would bring disgrace on them. Melinda was shocked, astonished, and confounded, but she did not believe in Frank Van Buren. Ethie never went with him-never. She, like Andy, would swear to that, and she said as much to Richard, taking Ethie’s side as strongly as she could, without casting too much blame on him. And Richard felt better, hearing Ethie upheld and spoken for, even if it were so much against himself. Melinda was still his good angel, while Ethie, too, had just cause for thanking the kind girl who stood by her so bravely, and even made the mother-in-law less harsh in her expression.

There was a letter for Richard that night, from Harry Clifford, who wrote as follows:

“I do not know whether you found your wife at Mrs. Amsden’s or not, but I take the liberty of telling you that Frank Van Buren has returned, and solemnly affirms that if Mrs. Markham was on board the train which left here on the 17th, he did not know it. Neither did he see her at all when in Camden. He called on his way to the depot that night, and was told she was out. Excuse my writing you this. If your wife has not come back, it will remove a painful doubt, and if she has, please burn and forget it. Yours,

“H. Clifford.”

“Thank Heaven for that!” was Richard’s exclamation as in the first revulsion of feeling he sprang from his chair, while every feature of his face was irradiated with joy.

“What is it, Dick? Is Ethie found? I knew she would be. I’ve prayed for it fifty times to-day, and I had faith that God would hear,” Andy said, the great tears rolling down his smooth, round face as he gave vent to his joy.

But Andy’s faith was to be put to a stronger test, and his countenance fell a little when Richard explained the nature of the letter. Ethie was not found; she was only proved innocent of the terrible thing Richard had feared for her, and in being proven innocent, she was for a moment almost wholly restored to his favor. She would come back some time. She could not mean to leave him forever. She was only doing it for a scare, and to punish him for what he did that night. He deserved punishment, too, he thought, for he was pretty hard on her, and as he surely had been punished in all he had suffered during the last forty-eight hours, he would, when she came back, call everything even between them, and begin anew.

This was Richard’s reasoning; and that night he slept soundly, dreaming that Ethie had returned, and on her knees was suing for his forgiveness, while her voice was broken with tears and choking sobs. As a man and husband who had been deserted, it was his duty to remain impassive a few moments, while Ethie atoned fully for her misdeeds: then he would forgive her, and so he waited an instant, and while he waited he woke to find only Andy, with whom he was sleeping, kneeling by the bedside, with the wintry moonlight falling on his upturned face, as he prayed for the dear sister Ethie, whose steps had “mewandered” so far away.

“Don’t let any harm come to her; don’t let anybody look at her for bad, but keep her-keep her-keep her in safety, and send her back to poor old Dick and me, and make Dick use her better than I ’most know he has, for he’s got the Markham temper in him, and everybody knows what that is.”

This was Andy’s prayer, taken from no book or printed form, but the outpouring of his simple, honest heart, and Richard heard it, wincing a little as Andy thus made confession for him of his own sins; but he did not pray himself, though he was glad of Andy’s prayers, and placed great hopes upon them. God would hear Andy, and if he did not send Ethie back at once, he would surely keep her from harm.

The next day Richard went back to Camden. Melinda Jones had suggested that possibly Ethie left a letter, or note, which would explain her absence, and Richard caught at it eagerly, wondering he had not thought of it before, and feeling very impatient to be off, even though he dreaded to meet some of his old friends, and be questioned as to the whereabouts of his wife. He did not know that the story of his desertion was already there-Mrs. Amsden having gone to town with her mite, which, added to the sale of the piano, Ethie’s protracted absence, Richard’s return to Olney at midnight, and Harry Clifford’s serious and mysterious manner, were enough to set the town in motion. Various opinions were expressed, and, what was very strange, so popular were both Richard and Ethelyn that everybody disliked blaming either, and so but few unkind remarks had as yet been made, and those by people who had been jealous or envious of Ethelyn’s high position. No one knew a whisper of Frank Van Buren, for Harry kept his promise well, and no worse motive was ascribed to Ethie’s desertion than want of perfect congeniality with her husband. Thus they were not foes, but friends, who welcomed Richard back to Camden, watching him curiously, and wishing so much to ask where Mrs. Markham was. That she was not with him, was certain, for only Andy came-Andy, who held his head so high, and looked round so defiantly, as he kept close to Richard’s side on the way to the hotel. It was very dreary going up the old, familiar staircase into the quiet hall, and along to the door of the silent room, which seemed drearier than on that night when he first came back to it and found Ethie gone. There were ashes now upon the stove-hearth where Hal Clifford had kindled the fire, and the two chairs they had occupied were standing just where they had left them. The gas had not been properly turned off, and a dead, sickly odor filled the room, making Andy heave as he hastened to open the window, and admit the fresh, pure air.

“Seems as it did the day Daisy died,” Andy said, his eyes filling with tears.

To Richard it was far worse than the day Daisy died, for he had then the memory of her last loving words in his ear, and the feeling of her clinging kiss upon his lips, while now the memories of the lost one were only bitter and sad in the extreme.

“Melinda suggested a letter or something. Where do you suppose she would put it if there were one?” Richard asked in a helpless, appealing way, as he sank into a chair and looked wistfully around the room.

He had been very bold and strong in the cars and in the street; but here, in the deserted room, where Ethie used to be, and where something said she would never be again, he was weak as a girl, and leaned wholly upon Andy, who seemed to feel how much was depending upon him, and so kept up a cheery aspect while he kindled a fresh fire and cleared the ashes from the hearth by blowing them off upon the oilcloth; then, as the warmth began to make itself felt and the cold to diminish, he answered Richard’s query.

“In her draw, most likely; mother mostly puts her traps there.” So, to the “draw” they went-the very one where Daisy’s ring was lying; and Richard saw that first, knowing now for sure that Ethelyn had fled.

He knew so before, but this made it more certain-more dreadful, too, for it showed a determination never to return.

“It was Daisy’s, you know,” he said to Andy, who, at his side, was not looking at the ring, but beyond it, to the two letters, his own and Richard’s, both of which he seized with a low cry, for he, too, was sure of Ethie’s flight.

“See, Dick, there’s one for you and one for me,” he exclaimed, and his face grew very red as he tore open his own note and began to devour the contents, whispering the words, and breaking down entirely amid a storm of sobs and tears as he read:

“Dear Andy: I wish I could tell you how much I love you, and how sorry I am to fall in your good opinion, as I surely shall when you hear what has happened. Do not hate me, Andy; and sometimes, when you pray, remember Ethie, won’t you?”

He could get no farther than this, and with a great cry he buried his face in his hands and sobbed: “Yes, Ethie, I will, I will; but oh, what is it? What made you go? Why did she, Dick?” and he turned to his brother, who, with lightning rapidity, was reading Ethelyn’s long letter. He did not doubt a word she said, and when the letter was finished he put it passively in Andy’s hand, and then, with a bitter groan, laid his throbbing head upon the cushion of the lounge where he was sitting. There were no tears in his eyes-nothing but blood-red circles floating before them; while the aching balls seemed starting from their sockets with the pressure of pain. He had had his chance with Ethie and lost it; and though, as yet, he saw but dimly where he had been to blame, where he had made a mistake, he endured for the time all he was capable of enduring, and if revenge had been her object, Ethie had more than her desire.

Andy was stunned for a moment, and sat staring blankly at the motionless figure of his brother; then, as the terrible calamity began to impress itself fully upon him, intense pity for Richard became uppermost in his mind, and stooping over the crushed man, he laid his arm across his neck, and, tender as a sorrowing, loving mother, kissed and fondled the damp brown hair, and dropped great tears upon it, and murmured words of sympathy, incoherent at first, for the anguish choking his own utterance, but gradually gathering force and sound as his quivering lips kept trying to articulate: “Dick, poor old Dick, dear old Dick, don’t keep so still and look so white and stony. She’ll come back again, Ethie will. I feel it, I feel it, I know it, I shall pray for her every hour until she comes. Prayer will reach her where nothing else can find her. Poor Dick, I am so sorry. Don’t look at me so; you scare me. Try to cry; try to make a fuss; try to do anything rather than that dreadful look. Lay your head on me, so,” and lifting up the bowed head, which offered no resistance, Andy laid it gently on his arm, and smoothing back the hair from the pallid forehead, went on: “Now cry, old boy, cry with all your might;” and with his hand Andy brushed away the scalding tears which began to fall like rain from Richard’s eyes.

“Better so, a great deal better than the other way. Don’t hold up till you’ve had it out,” he kept repeating, while Richard wept, until the fountain was dry and the tears refused to flow.

“I’ve been a brute, Andy,” he said, when at last he could speak. “The fault was all my own. I did not understand her in the least. I ought never to have married her. She was not of my make at all.”

Andy would hear nothing derogatory of Richard any more than of Ethelyn, and he answered promptly: “But, Dick, Ethie was some to blame. She didn’t or’to marry you feelin’ as she did. That was where the wrong began.”

This was the most and the worst Andy ever said against Ethelyn, and he repented of that the moment the words were out of his mouth. It was mean to speak ill of the absent, especially when the absent one was Ethie, who had written, “In fancy I put my arms around your neck and kiss your dear, kind face.” Andy deemed himself a monster of ingratitude when he recalled these lines and remembered that of her who penned them he had said, “She was some to blame.” He took it all back to himself, and tried to exonerate Ethie entirely, though it was hard work to do so where he saw how broken, and stunned, and crushed his brother was, and how little he realized what was passing around him.

“He don’t know much more than I do,” was Andy’s mental comment, when to his question, “What shall we do next?” Richard replied, in a maudlin kind of way, “Yes, that is a very proper course. I leave it entirely to you.”

Andy felt that a great deal was depending upon himself, and he tried to meet the emergency. Seeing how Richard continued to shiver, and how cold he was, he persuaded him to lie down upon the bed, and piling the blankets upon him, made such a fire as he said to himself, “would roast a common ox”; then, when Hal Clifford came to the door and knocked, he kept him out, with that “Dick had been broke of his rest, and was tryin’ to make it up.”

But this state of things could not last long. Richard was growing ill, and talking so strangely withal, that Andy began to feel the necessity of having somebody there beside himself; “some of the wimmen folks, who knew what to do, for I’m no better than a settin’ hen,” he said.

Very naturally his thoughts turned to his mother as the proper person to come, “though Melinda Jones was the properest of the two. There was snap to her, and she would not go to pitchin’ in to Ethie.”

Accordingly, the next mail carried to Melinda Jones a note from Andy, which was as follows:

“Miss Melinda Jones: Dear Madam-We found the letters Ethie writ, one to me, and one to Dick, and Dick’s was too much for him. He lies like a punk of wood, makin’ a moanin’ noise, and talkin’ such queer things, that I guess you or somebody or’to come and see to him a little. I send to you because there’s no nonsense about you, and you are made of the right kind of stuff.

“Yours to command,

“Anderson Markham, Esq.”

This note Melinda carried straight to Mrs. Markham, and as the result, four hours later both the mother and Melinda were on the road to Camden, where Melinda’s services were needed to stem the tide of wonder and gossip, which had set in when it began to be known that Ethelyn was gone, and Richard was lying sick in his room, tended only by Andy, who would admit no one, not even the doctor, who, when urged by Harry Clifford, came to offer his services.

“He wasn’t goin’ to let in a lot of curious critters to hear what Dick was talkin’,” he said to his mother and Melinda, his haggard face showing how much he had endured in keeping them at bay, and answering through the key-hole their numerous inquiries.

Richard did not have a fever, as was feared at first; but for several days he kept his bed, and during that time his mother and Melinda stayed by him, nursing him most assiduously, but never once speaking to each other of Ethelyn. Both had read her letter, for Mrs. Markham never thought of withholding it from Melinda, who, knowing that she ought not to have seen it, wisely resolved to keep to herself the knowledge of its contents. So, when she was asked, as she was repeatedly, “Why Mrs. Markham had gone away,” she answered evasively, or not at all, and finding that nothing could be obtained from her, the people at last left her in quiet and turned to their own resources, which furnished various reasons for the desertion. They knew it was a desertion now, and hearing how sick and broken Richard was, popular opinion was in his favor mostly, though many a kind and wistful thought went after the fair young wife, who had been a belle in their midst, and a general favorite, too. Where was she now, and what was she doing, these many days, while the winter crept on into spring, and the March winds blew raw and chill against the windows of the chamber where Richard battled with the sickness which he finally overcame, so that by the third week of Ethie’s absence he was up again and able to go in quest of her, if so be she might be found and won to the love she never returned.