“I think we owe it to him; he has done so much to help,” she said to her father, who consented readily. If Mr. Pennington was busy, Elithe was busier. First in the church to see that everything was in order; then at home seeing to the dinner; then in the small room her father called his study, brushing his coat and hat and feeling sorry they were so shabby. After service there were all the strangers and miners to speak to, and the dinner to be gotten through. This was a great success, made so partly by Elithe’s good cooking, and partly by the genial manners of Mr. Pennington, who, without seeming at all forward, drew out the best there was in every one. When all was over and the Bishop gone Elithe was very tired, and her face showed it, as she sat on the porch, with her head leaning against the back of her chair. “You look pale and fagged out. Wouldn’t a walk do you good? I am going to the Post Office. Suppose you go with me?” some one said close to her. It was Mr. Pennington, who had just returned with Mr. Hansford from seeing the Bishop off. She had not often walked alone with him, but she knew no reason why she should not go with him now. The fresh air would do her good, and it was the day for the Boston Herald, which her father took as the one connecting link between him and his old Eastern life. To Elithe Boston, with its surroundings, was the centre of the world, and she read religiously every word of the paper, which was doubly interesting if it had anything in it concerning Oak City, where her father’s Aunt Phebe lived. Of this aunt, Elithe knew nothing, except that she was very peculiar. Her father seldom spoke of her, and her mother never. She could not forget the bitter things which had been said of her and to her at the time of her marriage. But she would not prejudice her children against her, and, with her husband, she hoped that through this aunt they might some time see a different phase of the world from that in Samona. She had not told Elithe that her father had written to her aunt and sent her photograph, and the latter was greatly surprised when, with the Boston Herald, the postmaster handed her a letter postmarked Oak City, Mass. “Why, this must be from Aunt Phebe. She has not written us in ages,” she said, studying the angular handwriting, which she remembered to have seen once or twice before. Mr. Pennington was standing where he, too, could read the address and postmark on the letter, and there was a queer expression on his face as he asked, “Have you an aunt in the East?” “Why, yes; father’s aunt in Oak City. Didn’t you know it?” Elithe replied.