“I met her by accident this afternoon on the island, while I was looking at one of the pictures in the house. She looked thin and white, but young and beautiful as any angel for all that. She asked me my name, and when I told her she seemed to know all about me, and was very kind to me, and sent her love to you and wishes you and old Aunt Monica and father to come with me to see her to-morrow, if possible, or, if not, as soon as you can,” answered Em., pouring out her news as rapidly as she could to satisfy the ravenous demands of the inquirer. “Well—well—well! Wonders will never cease in this world. Why, this beats Mr. Ronald’s sea yarns, Em. Emolyn Wyndeworth alive! Emolyn Wyndeworth the Lady of Edengarden! So near us, and not to let me know—_me_, who loved her so dearly, and had good cause, for the child sold her very clothes to buy my children bread!” And here Susan Palmer began to cry, though she could not for her life have told whether it was for present joy or remembered sorrow. It was probably from both causes. “Not to let _me_ know she was living, and so near—me, who named my prettiest child after her!” sobbed Susan. “But, mother, she _has_ let you know. She has sent you word by me. Remember, she has only been here for a few days—since the first of October.” “Oh! You didn’t tell me _that_, Em. I thought she had been here all the summer, as the people say she generally is. I wish you would tell _a straight story_, Em., and then I could understand things better,” said Susan Palmer as she wiped her eyes on her clean apron. “That is just what I have been trying to do, mother; so, if you will let me, I will begin at the beginning and tell you every particular so plainly that it will be as good as if you had gone there with me yourself and seen and heard everything.” “Well, then, so do, Em., and I’ll not interrupt you,” said Susan, settling herself comfortably back in the old easy-chair and stretching out her feet to the fire. And, having had her first ravenous and devouring cravings of curiosity satisfied, the good woman kept her word, and sat and listened with patient attention while Em. gave her a careful and detailed account of her visit to the island and interview with the Lady of Edengarden. Even when Em. had finished her narrative her mother showed no disposition to retire. All sense of weariness and drowsiness seemed to have vanished. Susan Palmer appeared to be disposed to sit up all night before the fire in her daughter’s chamber, talking of Emolyn Wyndeworth. “I wonder what she has been doing all these years when she has not been at Edengarden? Traveling all over the world, I do suppose, scattering blessings wherever she passed, I _know_; for the good of others was her only object, thought of self was never in her heart. I hardly think she ever felt she had any self until that sharp trouble of hers pierced her through and through, and drove her out into the desert places of the world.”