lly and so well.

Some very plain talks Melinda had with Richard with regard to Ethelyn;
and Richard, when he saw how anxious James was to please his wife, even
in little things which he had once thought of no consequence, regretted
so much that his own course had not been different with Ethelyn. "Poor,
dear Ethie," he called her to himself, as he sat alone at night in the
room where she used to be. At first he had freely talked of her with his
family. That was when, like Aunt Barbara, they were expecting her back,
or rather expecting constantly to hear from her through Aunt Barbara.
She would go to Chicopee first, they felt assured, and then Aunt Barbara
would write, and Richard would start at once. How many castles he built
to that second bringing her home, where Melinda made everything so
pleasant, and where she could be happy for a little time, when they
would go where she liked--it did not matter where. Richard was willing
for anything, only he did want her to stay a little time at the
farmhouse, just to see how they had improved, and to learn that his
mother could be kind if she tried. She meant to be so if Ethelyn ever
came back, for she had said as much to him on the receipt of Ethie's
message, sent in Andy's letter, and her tears had fallen fast as she
confessed to not always having felt or acted right toward the young
girl. With Melinda the ruling spirit they would have made it very
pleasant for Ethelyn, and they waited for her so anxiously all through
the autumnal days till early winter snow covered the prairies, and the
frost was on the window panes, and the wind howled dismally past the
door, just as it did one year ago, when Ethelyn went away. But, alas no
Ethie came, or tidings of her either, and Richard ceased to speak of her
at last, and his face wore so sad a look whenever she was mentioned that
the family stopped talking of her; or, if they spoke her name, it was as
they spoke of Daisy, or of one that was dead.

For a time Richard kept up a correspondence with Aunt Barbara; but that,
too, gradually ceased, and as his uncle, the old colonel, died in the
spring, and the widow went to her friends in Philadelphia, he seemed to
be cut off from any connections with Chicopee, and but for the sad,
harassing memory of what had been, he was to all intents and purposes
the same grave, silent bachelor as of yore, following the bent of his
own inclinations, coming and going as he liked, sought after by those
who