Her aunt must long since be returned from Chicago. Once a scrap of a note had been received from her, but it told nothing. It was not dated, and the postmark was not New York. It told absolutely nothing, even indirectly. Airs. Mowbray must long since have reopened her school, but it seemed to be tacitly agreed upon that Rotha was to go to school no more. What were all the people about? there seemed to be a spell upon Rotha and her affairs, as much as if she had been a princess in a fairy tale enchanted and turned to stone, or put to sleep; only she was not turned to stone at all, but all alive and quivering with pain and fear and anxiety. It was her life that was spell-bound. A thousand times she revolved the possibility of going into some work by which she could make money; and always had to give it up. She saw nobody, knew nobody, could apply to no one. She had used up all her writing paper in letters; and never an answer did she get. She began to think indeed her world was bewitched. Winter was looming up in the distance, not so very far off neither; was she to pass it _here_, alone with Prissy Purcell and her husband? Sometimes Rotha's courage gave way and she shed bitter tears; other times, when she was dressing her flowers in the long beds, or when she was looking into the tulip tree with some sweet word of the Bible in her mind, she could even smile at her prospect, and trust, and be quiet, and wait. However, as the autumn wore on, I am afraid the quiet was more and more broken up and the trust more sorrowful. It was on one of these evenings of early October, that Mr. Southwode presented himself, after so long an interval, at Mrs. Busby's door. Nothing was changed, to all appearance, in the house; it might have been but yesterday that he walked out of it for the last time; and nothing was changed in the appearance of Mr. Southwode himself. Just as he came three years ago, he came now. Mrs. Busby was alone in her drawing room, and advanced to meet him with outstretched hand and an expression of great welcome. She had not changed either, unless for the better. Her visiter recognized, as he had often done before, the expression of sense and character in her face, the quiet suavity of her manner, the many indications that here was what is called a fine woman. About the goodness of this fine woman he was not so sure; but he paid her a tribute of involuntary respect for her abilities, her cleverness, and her good manners. "Mr. Southwode! I am delighted to see you!" she exclaimed as she advanced to meet him, cordially, and yet with quiet dignity; not too cordial. "You have been a stranger to New York a great while." "Yes," he said. "Much longer than I anticipated." "I thought we should hardly ever see you here again." "Why not?" he asked with a smile.