"Of course," echoed Aunt Hannah, but she did not feel perfectly easy. She said to herself half a dozen times during the five miles' ride that it was all nonsense—that John and Maria never would do such a thing in the world, and it was a shame even to think it of them; but she felt all the same that it would be a great comfort to hear from themselves that Rhoda was well and happy at school. Her adopted grand-niece had crept very near the old woman's warm heart during these last years. She had done more to form Rhoda's mind than any one else, and she understood the girl far better than her adopted parents. "It would kill the child or drive her to something desperate," she said to herself; "but it can't be. I am an old fool, and am just worrying myself for nothing." Nevertheless, when she at last reached home, her first inquiry of Aunt Sarah for the Bowers family and Rhoda. "Oh, Rhoda; well, I don't know," answered the old woman. "They tell all kinds of stories, but I dare say there isn't no truth in 'em. Some say she has gone to school—some say Bowers has took her back to 'The Home,' or done worse. I don't know nothing about it. I've asked Mis' Bowers two or three times, but she always seems dreadful shy of saying anything about Rhoda. The girl herself thought she was going to school, I know, for she came down here and told me so the night before she went away. "'What school are you going to?' says I. "'I don't know,' says she. 'Pa says he can't tell till he gets there,' says she. "Well, I thought that was queer too, not to know where she was going to school, but I never thought no more about it till I heard these stories." "I can't think there is anything in the stories," said Aunt Hannah. "It is just village talk. Have any letters come for me?' "Yes, a lot. Here they are in this drawer. I've been to the office every day." Aunt Hannah looked them over. There was one from the grocer who bought her catsup and pickles every year, one or two from missionary friends and others, but no letter from Rhoda. "There must be something wrong," she said to herself; "and yet perhaps she is waiting to hear that I have got home." "The Bowerses are all gone away and their house is shut up," said Aunt Sarah, "but I heard Kissy Cooke say they was coming home Saturday. Hasn't the kitten growed?" The days went on, and still no letter came from Rhoda, but on Saturday, Keziah Cooke stopped in and brought one. "John Bowers has got home," said she; "I've just been up and opened the house for them, and I stayed to get tea, for the baby ain't very well, and Mrs. Bowers seemed kind of beat out. I was coming by the office, and Mr. Badger handed me that letter for you. It's from Rhoda, ain't it?" "Yes," said Miss Weightman. She opened the letter as she spoke and reading a few lines, she dropped the paper and clasped her hands with such a look of pain and distress that Keziah sprang to catch her, thinking she was going to faint.