They heard at the farm-house that Magdalen was improving slowly, and then there came a rumor in a roundabout way, that the day for the bridal was fixed, and that Mrs. Walter Scott was in New York selecting the bridal trousseau. Roger’s face was very white for a few days after that, and nothing had power to clear the shadow from his brow, until one morning there came a letter to Hester Floyd from Magdalen herself, with the delicate perfumery she always used lingering about it, and her pretty monogram upon the seal. How Roger pressed the inanimate thing in one hand and caressed it with the other, and how fast he carried it to Hester, who was in the midst of working over her morning’s churning, but who put the tray aside at once and washed her hands, and adjusted her spectacles, while Roger stood by inwardly chafing at the delay and longing to know what Magdalen had written. It was very short indeed, and formal and stiff, and did not sound at all like Magdalen. She was quite well now, and she wanted to thank Mrs. Floyd for all the care she had taken of her before leaving Millbank. “Mrs. Irving tells me you were very kind to me,” she wrote, “and though I have no recollection that you or any one but Celine came near me, I am grateful all the same, and shall always remember your kindness to me both then and when I was a child, and such a care to you; I am deeply grateful to all who have done so much for me, and I wish them to know it, and remember me kindly as I do them. I am going away soon, and I want to take with me all I brought to Millbank. I have the locket, but the little dress I cannot find. Mrs. Irving thinks you took it in the chest. Did you, and if so, will you please send it to me at once by express, and oblige, “Yours truly, “MAGDALEN.” That was the letter. Not one word in it to Roger, except as the sentence beginning with “I am deeply grateful to _all_ who have done so much for me,” was supposed to refer to him. She wished him to remember her kindly as she did him, and she was going away from Millbank, but _where_, or how, or with whom, Roger could not tell. Hester _knew_ she was going to be married, though why “she should want to lug that dud of a slip round with her finery was more than she could divine,” she said, as she brought down the little spotted crimson dress, and wrapping it in thick brown paper gave it to Roger to direct. “Maybe you’ll write her a line or two for me; my hand is too shaky and cramped,” she said to Roger, who shook his head and replied, “You must answer your own letters, Hester;” but he directed the little parcel to “Miss Magdalen Lennox, Belvidere,” and sent it on its way to Millbank. CHAPTER XXXII. MAGDALEN’S DECISION.