leasant, after all, Gertrude," wrote Mrs. Ellis, "and
I wish we were safe home again; and not on my own account either, so
much as Emily's. She feels kind of strange here; and no wonder, for it's
a dreadful uncomfortable sort of a place. The windows have no glass
about them, but are grated like a prison; and there is not a carpet in
the house, nor a fire-place, though sometimes the mornings are cold.
There's a widow here, with a brother and some nieces. The widow is a
flaunting kind of a woman, that I begin to think is either setting her
cap for Mr. Graham, or means to make an old fool of him. She is one of
your loud-talking women, that dress up a good deal, and like to take the
lead; and Mr. Graham is silly enough to follow after her party, and go
to all sorts of rides and excursions;--it's so _ridiculous_--and he over
sixty-five years old! Emily and I have pretty much done going into the
parlour, for these gay folks don't take any sort of notice of us. Emily
doesn't say a word, or complain a bit, but I know she is not happy here,
and would be glad to be back in Boston; and so should I, if it wasn't
for that horrid steamboat. I liked to have died with sea-sickness,
Gertrude, coming out; and I dread going home so, that I don't know what
to do."

* * * * *

Gertrude wrote frequently to Emily, but, as Miss Graham was dependent
upon Mrs. Ellis's eyesight, and the letters must, therefore, be subject
to her scrutiny, she could not express her innermost thoughts and
feelings as she was wont to do in conversation with her sympathising and
indulgent friend. Every Indian mail brought news from William Sullivan,
who, prosperous in business, and rendered happy even in his exile by the
belief that the friends he loved best were in the enjoyment of the
fruits of his exertions, wrote always in a strain of cheerfulness.

One Sabbath afternoon, a few weeks after Mr. Cooper's death, found
Gertrude with an open letter in her hand, the numerous post-marks upon
the outside of which proclaimed from whence it came. It had that day
been received, and Mrs. Sullivan, as she lay stretched upon the couch,
had been listening for the third time to the reading of its contents.
The bright hopes expressed by her son, and the gay tone in which he
wrote, all unconscious of the cloud of sorrow that was gathering for
him, formed so striking a contrast to her own reflections, that she lay
with her eyes closed, and oppressed