"How," said I, in surprise, "how did you know I had gone far? I thought the general opinion was that I was murdered." "Oh, yes," said my sister, nodding at her husband; "it was just as you say." With that Alderwood smiled, and nodded back again, saying, "Prue is right. When we discovered your condition--that is, when we found you had been murdered, as you say, and that there was no one to look to the poor forty-acre except the sheriff and the mortgagee, it was agreed between your sister and myself that I should take the matter in hand; for we were loath the property should go into the possession of strangers. Besides, Prudence insisted upon being near you--" "That is," said Prudence, "near to where we supposed the murderers must have concealed your body." "Exactly so," said Alderwood. "For this reason I left my own farm in the hands of my young brother Robert, came down hither, bag and baggage, applied a little of my loose cash (for I believe I have been somewhat more prosperous than you) to stopping the mouth of your mortgagee, building fences, banking meadows, spreading marl, and so on; and the consequence is, that we are getting the forty-acre into good condition again, so that, in a few years, it will pay the debts, and perhaps begin to make the fortune of its owner." I grasped my brother-in-law's hand. I was moved by his kindness; and remembering how, after quarrelling with him, as related in the first book of this history, I had refused a reconciliation, and rejected his offers of assistance, his friendship and generosity appeared still more worthy of my gratitude. "Poh!" said he, interrupting my thanks and professions of regard, but looking well pleased that I should be disposed to make them, "I was persuaded you would come to some day--that is, I mean, come back." "That is," said Prudence, "we always had a notion you were not really dead, and that we should see you again, some time, alive and happy."