“Just like Bellmont! He’s a fine fellow and deserves ’Lena, if anybody does,” exclaimed John Jr., while Carrie chimed in, “Pshaw! I’ve no idea he’s gone for her. Why, they’ve hardly spoken for several months, and besides that, Mrs. Graham will never suffer him to marry one of so low origin.” “The deary me!” said John Jr., mimicking his sister’s manner, “how much lower is her origin than yours?” Carrie’s reply was prevented by the appearance of her grandmother, who, hearing that John Jr. was there, had hobbled in to see him. Perfectly rational on all other subjects, Mrs. Nichols still persisted in saying of ’Lena, that she had killed her, and now, when her first greeting with John Jr. was over, she whispered in his ear, “Have they told you ’Lena was dead? She is—I killed her—it says so here,” and she handed him the almost worn-out note which she constantly carried with her. Rough as he seemed at times, there was in John Jr.’s nature many a tender spot, and when he saw the look of childish imbecility on his grandmother’s face, he pressed his strong arm around her, and a tear actually dropped upon her gray hair as he told her ’Lena was not dead—he was going to find her and bring her home. At that moment old Cæsar, who had been to the post-office, returned, bringing Mr. Graham’s letter, which had just arrived. “That’s Mr. Graham’s handwriting,” said Carrie; glancing at the superscription. “Perhaps _he_ knows something of ’Lena!” and she looked meaningly at her mother, who, with a peculiar twist of her mouth, replied, “Very likely.” “You are right. He _does_ know something of her,” said Mr. Livingstone, as he finished reading the letter. “She is with him at a little village called Laurel Hill, somewhere in New York.” “There! I told you so. Poor Mrs. Graham. It will kill her. I must go and see her immediately,” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, settling herself back quite composedly in her chair, while Carrie, turning to her brother, asked “what he thought of ’Lena now.” “Just what I always did,” he replied. “There’s fraud somewhere. Will you let me see that, sir?” advancing toward his father, who, placing the letter in his hand, walked to the window to hide the varied emotions of his face. Rapidly John Jr. perused it, comprehending the whole then, when it was finished, he seized his hat, and throwing it up in the air, shouted, “Hurrah! Hurrah for _Miss ’Lena Rivers Graham_, daughter of the Honorable Harry Rivers Graham. I was never so glad in my life. Hurrah!” and again the hat went up, upsetting in its descent a costly vase, the fragments of which followed in the direction of the hat, as the young man capered about the room, perfectly insane with joy. “Is the boy crazy?” asked Mrs. Livingstone, catching him by the coat as he passed her, while Carrie attempted to snatch the letter from his hand.