"I believe it was all his fault," said she. "He never could bear me when I first went there, and I remember his saying he wouldn't let that poorhouse girl call him 'Uncle.' I didn't think so much of it at the time; but now that I think matters over, I can see that it was his doing. He never could bear to have Aunt Hannah give me anything, and I know he made Mr. and Mrs. Bowers think he wouldn't leave them or the baby any money unless they sent me away. Mother—Mrs. Bowers, I mean—used to be always talking about the money he had, and how he could make baby rich. I told her one day that he wouldn't do it—that he would go on saving all his life, and then leave his property to some charity at last by way of making amends." "It is likely enough," said Miss Brown, sighing. "Is his wife living?" "Oh no; she died long ago." "What kind of woman was she?" "I asked Aunt Hannah once, and she said,— "'Harriet was one of the salt of the earth, if she had only been in the right place.' "Afterward mother told me that Aunt Harriet was an open-handed, liberal woman, but that she and her husband were not happy together. Did you know Mr. Weightman?" "Yes, I knew him when we were all young together," answered Miss Brown, sighing again, "though he is several years older than I am. My dear, have you written to your aunt since you have been here?" "No, ma'am," answered Rhoda, rather proudly; "I waited for her to write to me." "And has she not done so?" "No, ma'am, not a word." "Perhaps—it is just possible she does not know where you are," said Miss Brown. "Miss Carpenter told me that when you left home you thought you were coming to school. Isn't it just possible that the same idea may have been carried there?" "And that Aunt Hannah thinks I am at school all the time?" said Rhoda, starting and dropping her book. "I dare say she does. And yet it would be so mean, I don't like to think they would do so." "Nevertheless, I would write to her," said Miss Brown, thinking at the same time that the people who would play such a trick on an orphan child would be none too good to save appearances for themselves in the same way. "She may be wondering why you do not write to her." "Yes, it must seem very strange if she thinks I am at school, and—Why, of course she does," exclaimed Rhoda. "How silly I am! I wrote to her that they were thinking of sending me to school in Milby, but it was not settled yet. But would you tell her all about it?" "I would. Truth is always best in the end, and she will be sure to hear it somehow. Besides, you owe it to her. But don't write to-day. You are tired and excited, and must not undertake too much at once. Lean back in the chair or lie down on the couch and rest a while." "May I bring my writing things in here, Miss Brown?" asked Rhoda the next day, coming into Miss Brown's room with her desk in her hands. "Yes, do, my child. Are you going to write to your aunt?"