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Not until her work of love was thus ended did Gertrude become
conscious that the long continuance of her labors by night and
day had worn upon her frame and utterly exhausted her strength.
For a week after Mrs. Sullivan was laid in her grave, Dr. Jeremy
was seriously apprehensive of a severe illness for Gertrude. But,
after struggling with her dangerous symptoms for several days,
she rallied, and, though still pale and worn by care and anxiety,
was able to resume her classes at school, and make arrangements
for providing herself with another home.

Several homes had been already offered to her, several urgent
invitations given, with a warmth and cordiality which made it
difficult to decline their acceptance; but Gertrude, though deeply
touched by the kindness thus manifested towards her in her loneliness
and desolation, preferred to abide by her previously-formed
resolution to seek for herself a permanent boarding-place, and,
when the grounds on which she based her decision were understood
by her friends, they approved her course, ceased to
importune her, and manifested a sincere wish to be of service, by
lending their aid to the furtherance of her plans.

Mrs. Jeremy was at first disposed to feel hurt and wounded by
Gertrude's refusal to come to them without delay, and consider
herself established for any length of time that she chose to remain;
and the doctor himself was so peremptory with his, “Come,
Gertrude, come right home with us—don't say a word!” that

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she was afraid lest, in her weak state of health, she should be
actually carried off, without a chance to remonstrate. But, after
he had taken upon himself to give Jane orders about packing her
clothes and sending them after her, and then locking up the house
and going home herself, he gave Gertrude an opportunity to expostulate,
and present her reasons for wishing to decline the
generous proposal.

All her reasoning upon general principles, however, proved
insufficient to convince the warm-hearted couple. “It was all
nonsense about independent position. She would be perfectly
independent with them, and her company would be such a pleasure
that she need feel no hesitation in accepting their offer, and
might be sure she would herself be conferring a favor, instead of
being the party obliged.” At last she was compelled to make
use of an argument which had greatly influenced her own mind,
and would, she felt sure, carry no little weight with it in the
doctor's estimation.

“Dr. Jeremy,” said she, “I hope you will not condemn in me
a motive which has, I confess, strengthened my firmness in this
matter. I should be unwilling to mention it, if I did not know
that you are so far acquainted with the state of affairs between
Mr. Graham and myself as to understand, and perhaps in some
degree sympathize with, my feelings. You know that he was
opposed to my leaving them and remaining here this winter; and
must suspect that, when we parted, there was not a perfectly
good understanding between us. He hinted that I should never
be able to support myself, and should be driven to a life of
dependence; and, since the salary which I receive from Mr. W. is
sufficient for all my wants, I am anxious to be so situated, on Mr.
Graham's return, that he will perceive that my assurance, or boast
(if I must call it so), that I could earn my own living, was not
without foundation.”

“So Graham thought that, without his sustaining power, you
would soon come to beggary—did he? With your talents, too!—
that's just like him!”

“O, no, no!” replied Gertrude, “I did not say that; but I
seemed to him a mere child, and he did not realize that, in giving

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me an education, he had, as it were, paid my expenses in advance.
It was very natural he should distrust my capacity—he had
never seen me compelled to exert myself.”

“I understand—I understand,” said the doctor. “He thought
you would be glad enough to come back to them;—yes, yes, just
like him!”

“Well, now,” said Mrs. Jeremy, “I don't believe he thought
any such thing. He was provoked, and didn't mind what he
said. Ten to one he will never think of it again, and it seems to
me it is only a kind of pride in Gertrude to care anything about
it.”

“I don't know that, wife,” said the doctor. “If it is pride, it's
an honorable pride, that I like; and I am not sure but, if I were
in Gertrude's place, I should feel just as she does; so I shan't
urge her to do any other ways than she proposes. She can have
a boarding-place, and yet spend a good share of her time with
us, what with running in and out, coming to spend days, and so
on; and she doesn't need to be told that, in case of any sickness
or trouble, our doors are always open to her.”

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Jeremy; “and, if you feel set about
it, Gerty dear, I am sure I shall want you to do whatever
pleases you best; but one thing I do insist on, and that is, that
you leave this house, which must look dreary enough to you now,
this very day, go home with me, and stay until you get recruited.”

Gertrude, gladly consenting to a short visit, compromised the
matter by accompanying them without delay; and it was chiefly
owing to the doctor's persevering skill and care bestowed upon
his young guest, and the kind and motherly nursing of Mrs.
Jeremy, that she escaped the illness which had so severely
threatened her.

Mr. and Mrs. W., who had felt great sympathy for Gertrude,
in consequence of the acquaintance they had had with the
trying nature of her winter's experience, pressed her to come to
their house, and remain until the return of Mr. Graham and
Emily; but, on being assured by her that she was quite unaware
of the period of their absence, and should not probably reside
with them for the future, they were satisfied that she acted with

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in wisdom and judgment in at once providing herself with an independent
situation.

Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, who had been constant in their attentions
both to Mrs. Sullivan and Gertrude, and were the only
persons, except the physician, who had been admitted to the sick
room of the invalid, felt that they had a peculiar claim to the
guardianship and care of the doubly-orphaned girl, and were not
slow to urge upon her to become a member of their household,
and accept of their protection, limiting their invitation, as the
W.'s had done, to the time when Emily should be back from the
south. Mr. Arnold's family, however, being large, and his house
and salary small in proportion, true benevolence alone prompted
this proposal; and, on Gertrude's acquainting his economical and
prudent wife with the ample means she enjoyed from her own
exertions, and the decision she had formed of procuring an independent
home, she received the warm approbation of both, and
found in the latter an excellent adviser and assistant.

Mrs. Arnold had a widowed sister, who was in the habit of
adding to her moderate income by receiving into her family, as
boarders, a few young ladies, who came to the city for purposes
of education. Gertrude did not know this lady personally, but
had heard her warmly praised; and she indulged the hope that,
through her friend, the clergyman's wife, she might obtain with
her an agreeable and not too expensive residence. In this she
was not disappointed. Mrs. Warren had fortunately vacant, at
this time, a large and cheerful front chamber; and, Mrs. Arnold
having recommended Gertrude in the warmest manner, suitable
terms were agreed upon, and the room immediately placed at her
disposal. Mrs. Sullivan had bequeathed to her all her furniture,
a part of which had lately been purchased, and was, in accordance
with Willie's injunctions, most excellent, both in material
and workmanship; and Mrs. Arnold and her two eldest daughters
insisted that, in consideration of her recent fatigue and bereavement,
she should consent to attend only to her school duties, and
leave to them the task of furnishing her room with such articles
as she preferred to have placed there, and superintending the
packing away of all other movables; for Gertrude was unwilling

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that anything should be sold. It was a great relief to be thus
spared the cruel trial of seeing the house her lost friend had
taken so much pleasure and pride in stripped and left desolate;
and though, on first entering her apartment at Mrs. Warren's, a
deep sadness crept into her heart at the sight of the familiar furniture,
she could not but think, as she observed the neatness,
care and taste, with which everything had been arranged for her
reception, that it would be a sin to repine and call one's self
wretched and alone in a world which contained hearts so quick
to feel, and hands so ready to labor, as those that had interested
themselves for her.

On entering the dining-room the first evening after she took
up her residence at Mrs. Warren's, she expected to meet only
strangers at the tea-table, but was agreeably disappointed at the
sight of Fanny Bruce, who, left in Boston while her mother and
brother were spending the winter in travelling, had now been
several weeks an inmate of Mrs. Warren's house. Fanny was a
school-girl, twelve or thirteen years of age; and having, for some
summers past, been a near neighbor to Gertrude, had been in the
habit of seeing her frequently at Mr. Graham's, had sometimes
begged flowers from her, borrowed books, and obtained assistance
in her fancy-work. She admired Gertrude exceedingly; had
hailed with great delight the prospect of knowing her better, as
she hoped to do at Mrs. Warren's; and when she met the gaze
of her large, dark eyes, and saw a smile of pleasure overspread
her countenance at the sight of a familiar face, she felt emboldeued
to come forward, shake hands, and beg that Miss Flint
would sit next her at the table.

Fanny Bruce was a girl of good disposition and warm heart,
but she had been much neglected by her mother, whose chief
pride was in her son, the same Ben of whom we have previously
spoken. She had often been left behind in some boarding-house,
while her pleasure-loving mother and indolent brother passed
their time in journeying; and had not always been so fortunately
situated as at present. A sense of loneliness, a want of sympathy
in any of her pursuits, had been a source of great unhappiness
to the poor child, who labored under the painful

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consciousness that but little interest was felt by any one in her improvement
or happiness.

Gertrude had not been long at Mrs. Warren's before she
observed that Fanny occupied an isolated position in the family.
She was a few years younger than her companions, three dressy
misses, who could not condescend to admit her into their olique;
and Mrs. Warren's time was so much engrossed by household
duties that she took but little notice of her. Her apparent loneliness
could not fail to excite the compassion of one who was
herself suffering from recent sorrow and bereavement; and,
although the quiet and privacy of her own room were, at this
time, grateful to Gertrude's feelings, pity for poor Fanny induced
her to invite her frequently to come and sit with her, and she
often so far forgot her own griefs as to exert herself in providing
entertainment for her young visitor, who, on her part, considered
it privilege enough to share Gertrude's retirement, read her books,
and feel confident of her friendship. During the month of
March, which was unusually stormy, Fanny spent almost every
evening with Gertrude; and she, who at first felt that she was
making a sacrifice of her own comfort and ease by giving another
such constant access to her apartment, came, at last, to realize
the force of Uncle True's prophecy, that, in her efforts for the
happiness of others, she would at last find her own; for Fanny's
lively and often amusing conversation drew Gertrude from the
contemplation of her trials, and the interest and affection she
awakened saved her from the painful consciousness of her solitary
situation.

April arrived, and still no further news from Emily. Gertrude's
heart ached with a vain longing to once more pour out
her griefs on the bosom of that dear friend, and find in her
consolation, encouragement, and support. She longed to tell her
how many times during the winter she had sighed for the gentle
touch of the soft hand which was wont to rest so lovingly
on her head, the sound of that sweet voice whose very tones
were comforting. For some time Gertrude wrote regularly, but of
late she had not known where to direct her letters; and since
Mrs. Sullivan's death there had been no communication between

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her and the travellers. She was sitting at her window, one evening,
thinking of that group of friends whom she had loved with
a daughter's and a sister's love, and who were now separated
from her by distance, or that greater barrier, death, when she
was summoned below stairs to see Mr. Arnold and his daughter
Anne.

After the usual civilities and inquiries, Miss Arnold turned to
Gertrude and said, “Of course you have heard the news, Gertrude?”

“No,” replied Gertrude, “I have heard nothing special.”

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Arnold, “have you not heard of
Mr. Graham's marriage?”

Gertrude started up in surprise. “Do you really mean so,
Mr. Arnold? Mr. Graham married! When? To whom?”

“To the widow Holbrook, a sister-in-law of Mr. Clinton's; she
has been staying at Havana with a party from the north, and
the Grahams met her there.”

“But, Gertrude,” asked Miss Arnold, “how does it happen you
had not heard of it? It is in all the newspapers—`Married in
New Orleans, J. H. Graham, Esq., of Boston, to Mrs. Somebody
or other Holbrook.' ”

“I have not seen a newspaper for a day or two,” replied Gertrude.

“And Miss Graham's blindness, I suppose, prevents her writing,”
said Anne; “but I should have thought Mr. Graham would
have sent wedding compliments.”

Gertrude made no reply, and Miss Arnold continued, laughingly,
“I suppose his bride engrosses all his attention.”

“Do you know anything of this Mrs. Holbrook?” asked Gertrude.

“Not much,” answered Mr. Arnold. “I have seen her
occasionally at Mr. Clinton's. She is a handsome, showy woman,
fond of society, I should think.”

“I have seen her very often,” said Anne. “She is a coarse,
noisy, dashing person,—just the one to make Miss Emily miserable.”

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Gertrude looked distressed, and Mr. Arnold glanced reprovingly
at his daughter.

“Anne,” said she, “are you sure you speak advisedly?”

“Belle Clinton is my authority, father. I only judge from
what I used to hear her say at school about her Aunt Bella, as
she always used to call her.”

“Did Isabel represent her aunt so unfavorably?”

“Not intentionally,” replied Anne; “she meant the greatest
praise, but I never liked anything she told us about her.”

“We will not condemn her until we can decide upon acquaintance,”
said Mr. Arnold, mildly; “perhaps she will prove the
very reverse of what you suppose her.”

“Can you tell me anything concerning Emily?” asked Gertrude,
“and whether Mr. Graham is soon to return?”

“Nothing,” said Miss Arnold. “I have seen only the notice
in the papers. When did you hear from them yourself?”

Gertrude mentioned the date of her letter from Mrs. Ellis, the
account she had given of a gay party from the north, and suggested
the probability that the present Mrs. Graham was the
widow she had described.

“The same, undoubtedly,” said Mr. Arnold.

Their knowledge of facts was so slight, however, that little
remained to be said concerning the marriage, and other topies of
conversation were introduced. But Gertrude found it impossible
to give her thoughts to any other subject; the matter
was one of such vital importance to Emily, that her mind constantly
recurred to it, and she found it difficult to keep pace with
Anne Arnold's rapidly-flowing words and ideas. The necessity
which at last arose of replying to a question which she had not
at all understood was fortunately obviated by the sudden entrance
of Dr. and Mrs. Jeremy. The former held in his hand a sealed
letter, directed to Gertrude, in the hand-writing of Mr. Graham;
and, as he handed it to her, he rubbed his hands, and, looking at
Anne Arnold, exclaimed, “Now, Miss Anne, we shall hear all
about these famous nuptials!”

Finding her visitors thus eager to learn the contents of her

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letter, Gertrude dispensed with ceremony, broke the seal, and
hastily perused its contents.

The envelope contained two or three pages closely written by
Mrs. Ellis, and also a somewhat lengthy note from Mr. Graham.
Surprised as Gertrude was at any communication from one who
had parted from her in anger, her strongest desire was to hear
particularly from Emily, and she therefore gave the preference
to the housekeeper's document, that being most likely to contain
the desired information. It ran as follows:

“New York, March 31, 1852.

“Dear Gertrude: As there were plenty of Boston folks at
the wedding, I daresay you have heard before this of Mr. Graham's
marriage. He married the widder Holbrook, the same I
wrote you about. She was determined to have him, and she's
got him. I don't hesitate to say he's got the worst of the bargain.
He likes a quiet life, and he's lost his chance of that,—
poor man!—for she's the greatest hand for company that ever I
saw. She followed Mr. Graham up pretty well at Havana, but
I guess he thought better of it, and did n't really mean to have
her. When we got to New Orleans, however, she was there;
and the long and short of it is, she carried her point, and married
him. Emily behaved beautifully; she never said a word against
it, and always treated the widder as pleasantly as could be; but,
dear me! how will our Emily get along with so many young folks
as there are about all the time now, and so much noise and confusion?
For my part, I an't used to it, and don't pretend that
I think it's agreeable. The new lady is civil enough to me, now
she's married. I daresay she thinks it stands her in hand, as
long as she's one of the family, and I've been in it so long. But
I suppose you've been wondering what had become of us, Gertrude,
and will be surprised to find we've got so far as New
York, on our way home,—my way home, I should say, for I'm
the only one that talks of coming at present. The truth is, I
kept meaning to write while we were in New Orleans, but there
was so much going on I did n't get a chance; and, after that
horrid steamboat from Charleston here, I was n't good for

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anything for a week. But Emily was so anxious to have you written
to that I could n't put it off any longer than until to-day. Poor
Emily is n't very well; I don't mean that she's downright sick,—
it's low spirits and nervousness, I suppose, more than anything.
She gets tired and worried very quick, and is easily
startled and disturbed, which did n't use to be the case. I think
likely it's the new wife, and all the nieces, and other disagreeable
things. She never complains, and nobody would know but what
she was pleased to have her father married again; but she has n't
seemed quite happy all winter, and now it troubles me to see how
sad she looks sometimes. She talks a sight about you, and felt
dreadfully not to get any more letters. To come to the principal
thing, however, they are all going to Europe,—Emily and all.
I take it it's the new wife's idea; but, whoever proposed the
thing, it's all settled now. Mr. Graham wanted me to go, but I
would not hear of such a thing; I would as soon be hung as
venture on the sea again, and I told him so, up and down. So
now he has written for you to go with Emily; and, if you are not
afraid of sea-sickness, I hope you won't refuse, for it would be
dreadful for her to have a stranger, and you know she always
needs somebody, on account of her blindness. I do not think she
has the least wish to go; but she would not ask to be left behind,
for fear her father should think she did not like the new wife.

“As soon as they sail,—which will be the last of April,—I
shall come back to the house in D—, and see to things there
while they are away. I am going to write a postscript to you
from Emily, and I believe I will add nothing more myself, except
that we shall be very impatient to hear your answer; and I must
say once more that I hope you will not refuse to go with Emily.

The postscript contained the following:

“I need not tell my darling Gertrude how much I have missed
her, and longed to have her with me again; how I have thought
of her by night and day, and prayed God to strengthen and
fit her for her many trials and labors. The letter written soon

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after Mr. Cooper's death, is the last that has reached me, and
I do not know whether Mrs. Sullivan is still living. Write
to me at once, my dear child, if you cannot come to us. Father
will tell you of our plans, and ask you to accompany us to Europe;
my heart will be light if I can take my dear Gerty with me, but
not if she leave any other duty behind. I trust to you, my love,
to decide aright. You have heard of father's marriage. It is a
great change for us all, but will, I trust, result in happiness.
Mrs. Graham has two nieces who are with us at the hotel. They
are to be of our party to go abroad, and are, I understand, very
beautiful girls, especially Belle Clinton, whom you have seen in
Boston some years ago. Mrs. Ellis is very tired of writing, and
I must close with assuring my dearest Gertrude of the devoted
affection of

It was with great curiosity that Gertrude unfolded Mr. Graham's
epistle; she thought it would be awkward for him to
address her, and wondered much whether he would maintain his
severe and authoritative tone, or condescend to explain and
apologize. Had she known him better, she would have been
assured that nothing would ever induce him to do the latter, for
he was one of those persons who never believe themselves in the
wrong. The letter ran thus:

“Miss Gertrude Flint: I am married, and intend to go
abroad on the 28th of April; my daughter will accompany
us, and, as Mrs. Ellis dreads the sea, I am induced to propose
that you join us in New York, and attend the party, as a companion
to Emily. I have not forgotten the ingratitude with which
you once slighted a similar offer on my part, and nothing would
compel me to give you another opportunity to manifest such a
spirit, but a desire to promote the happiness of Emily, and a
sincere wish to be of service to a young person who has been in
my family so long that I feel a friendly interest in providing for
her. I thus put it in your power, by complying with our wishes,
to do away from my mind the recollection of your past behavior;
and, if you choose to return to us, I shall enable you to maintain

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the place and appearance of a lady. As we sail the last of the
month, it is important you should be here in the course of a fortnight;
and, if you will write and name the day, I will myself meet
you at the boat. Mrs. Ellis being anxious to return to Boston,
I hope you will come as soon as possible. As you will be obliged
to incur expenses, I enclose a sum of money sufficient to cover
them. If you have contracted debts, let me know to what amount,
and I will see that all is made right before you leave. Trusting
to your being now come to a sense of your duty, I am ready to
subscribe myself your friend,

Gertrude was sitting near a lamp whose light fell directly
upon her face, which, as she glanced over Mr. Graham's note,
flushed crimson with wounded pride. Dr. Jeremy, who was
watching her countenance, observed that she changed color; and
during the few minutes that Mr. and Miss Arnold staid to hear
the news he gave an occasional glance of defiance at the letter,
and as soon as they were gone begged to be made acquainted
with its contents, assuring Gertrude that if she did not let him
know what Graham said, he should believe it a thousand times
more insulting than it really was.

“He writes,” said Gertrude, “to invite me to accompany them
to Europe.”

“Indeed!” said Dr. Jeremy, with a low whistle, “and he
thinks you'll be silly enough to pack up and start off at a
minute's notice!”

“Why, Gerty,” said Mrs. Jeremy, “you'll like to go, shan't
you, dear? It will be delightful.”

“Delightful nonsense! Mrs. Jerry,” exclaimed the doctor.
“What is there delightful, I want to know, in travelling about
with an arrogant old tyrant, his blind daughter, upstart, dashy
wife, and her two fine-lady nieces? A pretty position Gertrude
would be in, a slave to the whims of all that company!”

“Why, Dr. Jerry,” interrupted his wife, “you forget Emily.”

“Emily,—to be sure, she's an angel, and never would impose
upon anybody, least of all her own pet; but she'll have to play
second fiddle herself, and I'm mistaken if she doesn't find it

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pretty hard to defend her rights and maintain a comfortable position
in her father's enlarged family circle.”

“So much the more need, then,” said Gertrude, “that some
one should be enlisted in her interests, to ward off the approach
of every annoyance.”

“Do you mean, then, to put yourself in the breach?” asked
the doctor.”

“I mean to accept Mr. Graham's invitation,” replied Gertrude,
“and join Emily at once; but I trust the harmony that
seems to subsist between her and her new connections will continue
undisturbed, so that I shall have no occasion to take up
arms on her account, and on my own I do not entertain a single
fear.”

“Then you really think you shall go,” said Mrs. Jeremy.

“I do,” said Gertrude; “nothing but my duty to Mrs. Sullivan
and her father led me to think of leaving Emily. That duty
is at an end, and now that I can be of use to her, and she wishes
me back, I cannot hesitate a moment. I see very plainly, from
Mrs. Ellis' letter, that Emily is not happy, and nothing which I
can do to make her so must be neglected. Only think, Mrs.
Jeremy, what a friend she has been to me!”

“I know it,” said Mrs. Jeremy, “and I dare say you will enjoy
the journey, in spite of all the scare-crows the doctor sets up to
frighten you; but still, I declare, it does seem a sacrifice for you
to leave your beautiful room, and all your comforts, for such an
uncertain sort of life as one has travelling with a large party.”

“Sacrifice!” interrupted the doctor, “it's the greatest sacrifice
that ever I heard of! It is not merely giving up three hundred
and fifty dollars a year of her own earning, and as pleasant a
home as there is in Boston; it is relinquishing all the independence
that she has been striving after, and which she was so
anxious to maintain that she would not accept of anybody's hospitality
for more than a week or two.”

“No, doctor,” said Gertrude, warmly, “nothing that I do for
Emily's sake can be called a sacrifice; it is my greatest pleasure.”

“Gerty always finds her pleasure in doing what is right,”
remarked Mrs. Jeremy.

[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]

“O, no,” said Gertrude, “my wishes would often lead me
astray; but not in this case. The thought that our dear Emily was
dependent upon a stranger for all those little attentions that are
only acceptable from those she loves would make me miserable;
our happiness has for years been almost wholly in each other,
and when one has suffered the other has suffered also. I must
go to her; I cannot think of doing otherwise.”

“I wish I thought,” muttered Dr. Jeremy, “that the sacrifice
you make would be half appreciated. But there's Graham, I'll
venture to say, thinking it will be the greatest favor in the world
to take you back again. Perhaps he addresses you as a beggar;
it would n't be the first time he's done such a thing. I wonder
what would have induced poor Philip Amory to go back.”
Then, in a louder tone, he inquired, “Has he made any apology
in his letter for past unkindness?”

“I do not think he considered any to be needed,” replied
Gertrude.

“Then he did n't make any sort of excuse for his ungentlemanly
behavior! I might have known he would n't. I declare,
it's a shame you should be exposed to any more such treatment;
but I always did hear that women were self-forgetful in their
friendship, and I believe it. Gertrude makes an excellent friend.
Mrs. Jerry, we must cultivate her regard, and some time or other
perhaps make a loud call upon her services.”

“And if ever you do, sir, I shall be ready to respond to it;
if there is a person in the world who owes a debt to society, it is
myself. I hear the world called cold, selfish and unfeeling; but
it has not been so to me. I should be ungrateful if I did not
cherish a spirit of universal love; how much more so, if I did
not feel bound heart and hand to those dear friends who have
bestowed upon me such affection as no orphan ever found before!”

“Gertrude,” said Mrs. Jeremy, “I believe that you were right
in leaving Emily when you did, and that you are right in returning
to her now; and, if your being such a good girl as you are
is at all due to her, she certainly has a great claim upon you.”

“She has a claim indeed, Mrs. Jeremy! It was Emily who
first taught me the difference between right and wrong—”

[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]

“And she is going to reap the benefit of that knowledge in
you,” said the doctor, in continuation of her remark. “That's
fair! But, if you are resolved to take this European tour, you
will be busy enough with your preparations. Do you think Mr.
W. will be willing to give you up?”

“I hope so,” said Gertrude; “I am sorry to be obliged to ask
it of him, for he has been very indulgent to me, and I have
been absent from school two weeks out of the winter already;
but, as there want only a few months to the summer vacation, he
will, perhaps, be able to supply my place. I shall speak to him
about it to-morrow.”

Mrs. Jeremy now interested herself in the details of Gertrude's
arrangements, offered an attic-room for the storage of her furniture,
gave up to her a dress-maker whom she had engaged for
herself, and, before she left, a plan was laid out, by following
which Gertrude would be enabled to start for New York in less
than a week.

Mr. W., on being applied to, relinquished Gertrude, though
deeply regretting, as he told her, to lose so valuable an assistant;
and, after a few days busily occupied in preparation, she bade
farewell to the tearful Fanny Bruce, the bustling doctor and his
kind-hearted wife, all of whom accompanied her to the railroad-station.
She promised to write to the Jeremys, and they, on
their part, agreed to forward to her any letters that might arrive
from Willie.

In less than a fortnight from the time of her departure, Mrs. Ellis
returned to Boston, and brought news of the safe conclusion of
Gertrude's journey. A letter, received a week after, by Mrs.
Jeremy, announced that they should sail in a few days. She was,
therefore, surprised, when a second epistle was put into her hands,
dated the day succeeding that on which she supposed Mr. Graham's
party to have left the country. It was as follows:

“New York, April 29th.

“My Dear Mrs. Jeremy: As yesterday was the day on which
we expected to sail for Europe, you will be somewhat astonished
to hear that we are yet in New York, and still more so to learn

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that the foreign tour is now indefinitely postponed. Only two
days since, Mr. Graham was seized with his old complaint, the
gout, and the attack proved so violent as seriously to threaten his
life. Although to-day somewhat relieved, and considered by his
physician out of immediate danger, he remains a great sufferer,
and a sea-voyage is pronounced impracticable for months to come.
His great anxiety is to be at home; and, as soon as it is possible
for him to bear the journey, we shall all hasten to the house in
D—. I enclose a note for Mrs. Ellis. It contains various directions
which Emily is desirous she should receive; and, as we did
not know how to address her, I have sent it to you, trusting to
your kindness to see it forwarded. Mrs. Graham and her nieces,
who had been anticipating much pleasure from going abroad, are,
of course, greatly disappointed at the entire change in their plans
for the summer. It is particularly trying to Miss Clinton, as her
father has been absent more than a year, and she was hoping to
meet him in Paris.

“It is impossible that either Emily or myself should personally
regret a journey of which we felt only dread, and, were it not
for Mr. Graham's illness being the cause of its postponement, we
should both, I think, find it hard not to realise a degree of selfish
satisfaction in the prospect of returning to the dear old place in
D—, where we hope to be established in the course of the
next month. I say we, for neither Mr. Graham nor Emily will
hear of my leaving them again.

“With the kindest regards to yourself, and my friend the
doctor,

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