This also was very short, and somewhat reproachful, complaining that the writer had written at least half a dozen letters to her beloved Roma, addressed to the Isle of Storms, via Snowden, but that she had not received a line in acknowledgment of any one of them; that she was almost discouraged from further attempts to keep up the correspondence between herself and her old schoolmate and bosom friend; but, being on the eve of sailing for Liverpool with her mother, she made this last venture in the hope of hearing from her friend, and should address the letter to the care of Mr. Amos Merritt, who would be likely to know her address in the event that Mr. Harcourt and herself had left the Isle of Storms for some other place. The letter concluded with entreaties for a speedy reply, and assurances of the writer’s unchanged and unchangeable affection. “Poor Reba! Dear Reba! How little she knows of my real position, of the irreparable injury done by her evil stepbrother to Will Harcourt and myself. What must she think of my seemingly selfish neglect of her? And how shall I answer her letter without exposing her brother and giving her the deepest mortification? On the other hand, if I do not write to her, she will think me cold and careless, and that alternative would give her equal pain,” Roma said to herself. Then to the waiting negro boy she said: “You must be ready to take letters to the afternoon mail. Now you can go.” The boy ducked, and departed. “Darling,” Roma whispered gently to the listening and attentive child, “I have important letters to write, and I cannot take a walk with you to-day. But you may go in the garden and play, if you choose. You will be quite safe there.” The child kissed her benefactress, slid off her lap, and ran out of the house. Roma opened and read the letters of her relatives from Delfcome. They were full of praises of their new home, new friends, new scenes and new life altogether, and of prayers and petitions to their dear Roma to come out and join them immediately. Nothing but the presence of their beloved Roma was needed to complete their happiness. Roma read all these letters with the deepest interest, but she answered that of Reba Bushe first. She began by writing: “Your dear and most welcome letter received to-day is the very first I have had from you, my beloved friend, since parting with you, nearly six mouths ago, at the steamboat pier in Washington city. I can easily understand why the many letters you have written to me within the last half year, previous to this one, have not reached me. But though I do so well understand this, I cannot explain it to you. I am in deep trouble, almost in despair, yet must not tell you why—at least, not at present. The time may come when all shall be made clear. In the meanwhile, trust me, my beloved friend, and always think of me as your true and loving ROMA.