"I want so much to be with you again, dear papa,--to tell you all I hope and fear,--to feel your kiss again! Miss Johns, whom I have tried hard to love, but cannot, is changed wofully in her manner toward me. I feel it is only my home now by sufferance,--not such a home as you would choose for me, I am sure. The Doctor--good soul--is as kind as he knows how to be, but I want--oh, how I want!--to leap into your arms, dear papa, and find home there. Why can I not? I am sure--over and over sure--that I could bring some sunlight into a home of yours, if you would but let me. And when you come, as you say you mean to do soon, do not put me off with such stories as you once told me, of 'a lean Savoyard in red wig and spectacles, and of a fat Frenchman with bristly moustache' (you see I remember all); tell me I may come to be the mistress of your parlor and your _salon_, and I will keep all in such order, that, I am sure, you will not want me to leave you again; and you will love me so much that I shall never want to leave you. "Indeed, indeed, it is very wearisome to me here. The village people seem all of them to have caught the coolness of Miss Johns, and look askance at me. Only the Elderkins show their old kindness, and it is unfailing. Do not, I pray, disturb yourself about any 'lost fortune' of which you wrote to the Doctor, but never--cruel papa!--a word to me. I am rich: I can't tell you how many dollars are in the Savings Bank for me,--and for you, if you wish them, I have so little occasion to spend anything. But I have committed the extravagance of placing a beautiful tablet over the grave of poor Madame Arles, and, much to the horror of the good Doctor, insisted upon having a little cross inscribed upon its front. You have never told me, dear papa, if you received the long account I gave you of her sudden death, and how she died without ever telling me anything of herself,--though I believe it was in her mind to do so, at the last." No, of a truth, such a letter had never been received by Maverick, and he cursed the mails royally for it, since it might have prevented the need of any such disclosure as he had made to his friend Johns. When the present missive of Adele came to him, he was entering the brilliant Cafe de L'Orient at Marseilles, in company with his friend Papiol. The news staggered him for a moment. "Papiol!" said he, "_mon ami_, Julie is dead!" "_Parbleu!_ And among your Puritans, yonder? She must have made a piquant story of it all!" "Not a word, Papiol! She has kept by her promise bravely." "_Tant mieux_: it will give you good appetite, _mon ami_."