The story of Mr. Huntington’s existence and return to his family circulated rapidly, and with it, hand in hand, went the rumor of the wrong he had once done to the blind man, who by the people of Oakland was honored more in death than he had been in life, for they came in crowds to his funeral, gazing pityingly at the white face of the dead, and then staring curiously at the dark-browed stranger who was said to be William Huntington. Adelaide was not there, for Miss Elinor, a little given to gossip, it may be, had kindly remembered her, and numerous were the exaggerated stories afloat concerning the deception she had practiced both upon her father and the villagers. Like most people she had one so-called friend who dutifully kept her informed with regard to all that was said concerning her, and completely overwhelmed with shame and mortification, she resolved to keep herself secluded at home, where she vented her disappointment in harsh language and bitter tears, particularly when, on the day succeeding the funeral, she heard that Miss Elinor had taken Alice to live with her. But little did Miss Elinor care for her anger. The world to her was brighter now than it had been for many years, and with something of a mother’s love, her heart went out toward the orphan to whom she had given a home. Adelaide, however, was not forgotten, and the good lady was certainly excusable if, when riding with her protege, she did frequently order Jim to take them round to High Street, bidding him drive slowly past the house of the Huntingtons. But if in this way she thought to obtain a glimpse of Adelaide, she was mistaken, for the young lady was never visible, though, safely hidden behind the curtain, she herself seldom failed to see the carriage and the little figure in black, who she instinctively felt would some day be her rival. The bitterest drop of all in Adelaide’s cup of mortification was the knowledge that Mr. Howland had once thought to make her his wife, for he told her so in a letter written three weeks subsequent to Mr. Warren’s death. It is true he had never committed himself by words, but he had done so by actions, and honor demanded an explanation. So he wrote at last, and though it was a most polite and gentlemanly note, its contents stung her to her inmost soul, and casting it into the fire she watched it as it turned to ashes, feeling the while as if her own heart were charred and blistered with its load of guilt and shame. There were no more trips to Springfield now, for concealment of labor was no longer necessary, and the satchel Miss Elinor taunted her brother with having carried so often, lay useless upon the closet shelf. “I’ll die before I’ll do that—father may support us,” Adelaide had said when her mother suggested that they take in sewing from Mr. Howland’s store.