The letter for which Reliance had so anxiously waited came in the evening mail next day. Esther had written it from Boston. She had spent the night at the house of Bob’s cousin in South Denboro, and she and her husband had taken the early train from that station, as they had planned. They were going at once to the steamship office to see what arrangements could be made for their passage to Europe. She would write again as soon as those arrangements were made. Bob had broken the news to his grandfather and there had been another distressing scene. “It is all so dreadful,” wrote Esther, “that I don’t want to think about it now. Poor Bob! And poor Mr. Cook! And Uncle Foster! And you, Auntie! I feel as if I must be a wicked, ungrateful girl. He says I am not and that we have done the only thing that could be done. He is a dear fellow and I love him. He is sure we will never be sorry and that by and by everything will be right again. Oh, I hope so!... You will tell Uncle Foster how sorry I was to leave him, won’t you? _Make_ him understand just why I had to do it, Aunt Reliance. And then write me what he says. I will write him as soon as I hear from you that he cares to have me write. _Do_ you think he will ever forgive me?” Reliance felt no certainty on this point. She had not seen Foster Townsend that day. Nor had she heard from him. Varunas came for the mail, as usual, but he had nothing to tell. “The old man is glum as an oyster,” he said. “Ain’t hardly spoke a word all day and Nabby she’s scared he’s goin’ to be sick or somethin’. Say, where’s Esther gone? I thought likely she was down here to your house, Reliance, but Millard says she ain’t. He’s struck dumb, too, seems so. What’s the matter with all hands?” His question was answered next morning. Where, or from where, the amazing rumor first came is uncertain. Whether the Reverend Mr. Barstow told of the marriage ceremony, or Ezra Farmer told of issuing the certificate--whether the news was first made public in Denboro, or South Denboro, or there in Harniss, is still but a guess. And very few guessed or tried. The essential fact was all that mattered. Within a dozen hours the whole county buzzed. The great Foster Townsend’s niece had married the grandson of the almost as famous Elisha Cook. They were married and had run away together to Boston--to Chicago--to Europe--to nobody knew for certain where. Mrs. Benjamin Snow said, “Heavens and earth!” when she heard it. Mrs. Tobias Eldridge said, “My good land of love!” Every one said something and followed it with: “_What_ will Foster Townsend do? Has anybody seen him since it happened?”