After staying with my mother for three weeks, on the advice of my counselors, Messrs. Hayden & Yarrell, of Washington, District of Columbia, I decided to return to America with Mr. Samuel V. Hayden and his charming wife. I longed to be once more with my own people, and it was only physical weakness and nervous prostration that prevented me from doing so immediately upon my release. I met these good friends at Antwerp, Belgium, and sailed from there on the Red Star Line steamship _Vaderland_ for New York. My name was entered on the passenger list as Rose Ingraham, that I might secure more quiet and privacy; but when we were a few days out the fact of my identity became known, and with few exceptions the greatest courtesy, consideration, and delicacy were shown in the demeanor of the passengers toward me. If any of these should read these lines I would herewith express to them my grateful thanks and appreciation; while toward the captain and officers of the _Vaderland_ I feel especially indebted for their unwearied courtesy and consideration. When I first caught sight of the Statue of Liberty, I, perhaps more than any one on board, realized the full meaning of what it typifies, and I felt my heart stirred to its depths at the memory of what all my countrymen and countrywomen had done for me during the dark days of my past, to prove that they still carried me in their hearts, though the great ocean rolled between, and that I had not been robbed of the high privilege of being an American citizen. We arrived at New York on the 23d of August. It was a “red-letter” day. Once more, after many years of suffering and when I had long despaired of ever seeing the beloved faces of my friends again, my feet once again pressed the sacred soil of my native land. MY LOST YEARS A time will come when the world will acknowledge that the verdict which was passed upon me is absolutely untenable. But what then? Who shall give back the years I have spent within prison walls; the friends by whom I am forgotten; the children to whom I am dead;[4] the sunshine; the winds of heaven; my woman’s life, and all I have lost by this terrible injustice? Time may heal the deepest wounds when the balm of love and sympathy is poured into them. It is well; for if mental wounds proved as fatal as those of the body, the prison death-roll would indeed be a long one. FOOTNOTE: [4] The innocents--my children--one a baby of three years, the other a boy of seven, I had left behind in the world. They had been taught to believe that their mother was guilty, and, like their father, was to them dead. They have grown up to years of understanding under another name. I know nothing about them. When the pathos of all this touches the reader’s heart he will realize the tragedy of my case.