This letter did not particularly affect Everard either way. Dresden was very far off, and Josephine might remain abroad another year, and into that time so much happiness might be crowded that he would take the good offered him, and not cross the river of difficulty until he fairly reached it. But on his return from the Forrest House he found two more letters on his desk, one postmarked at Dresden, the other at Holburton, and this he opened first. It was from Agnes, and had been sometime on the road, and told him that Mrs. Fleming had died suddenly, after an illness of two days only, and Agnes was left alone. There was still a mortgage on the house, she said, and after that was paid, and the few debts they were owing, there would be but little left for her, and this little she must, of course, divide with Josephine. She offered no complaint, nor asked for any help. She said she could take care of herself, either as housekeeper, cook, or nurse, and, on the whole, she seemed to be in a very resigned and cheerful state of mind for a person left so entirely alone. The other letter proved to be from a Cincinnati acquaintance, with whom he had once been at school, and who had recently married and gone abroad, and was in Dresden, at the Victoria Hotel, where, he said, there were many pleasant Americans, both from Boston and New York, and Everard felt morally sure that the pleasant people from Boston were Mrs. Arnold and Josephine. And his friend, Phil Evarts, was just the man to be attracted by Josey, even if he had a hundred wives, and Josephine was sure to meet him more than half-way, and find out first that he was from Cincinnati, and then that he had been in Rothsay, and knew Judge Forrest’s family, and then,—a cold sweat broke out all over Everard’s face as he thought, _what then?_ while something whispered to him, “Then you will reap the fruit of the deception practiced so long, and you deserve it, too.” Everard knew he deserved it, but when one is reaping the whirlwind, I do not think it is any comfort to know that he has sowed the wind, or this harvest would never have been. It certainly did not help Everard, but rather added to the torments he endured as he thought of Josephine, enraged and infuriated, swooping down upon him, bristling all over with _injured innocence_, and making for herself a strong party, as she was sure to do. But worse than all would be the utter loss of Rossie, for she _would_ be lost to him forever, and possibly turn against him for his duplicity, and that he could not bear. “I’ll tell her to-morrow, so help me Heaven!” he said, as he laid his throbbing head upon his writing-table and tried to think how he should commence, and what she would say.