For nearly ten years Ralph Waring had been a homeless wanderer, getting a living in a variety of ways. Of course things had gone well with him while he had money in his pocket, but when that had melted away his appreciative friends suddenly disappeared. Like other folks in that new country he had plenty of opportunities of getting on, but like so many others he wanted the top rung of the ladder first, and found that such a leap did not come within the bounds of possibility. Every bottom rung he was compelled to try proved too prosaic, and years were spent in becoming familiar with a whole series of bottom rungs. All the letters he had sent to Phebe had been under cover to Stephen Collins; even the one Stephen Collins had himself placed in the desk had been directed to him. Why Ralph had done this it would be difficult to say. His motive may have been the wish to provide Phebe during his absence with a reliable helper, but it was very questionable if he had really sufficient regard for either of them to do that. The letters ceased just as soon as his "castles in the air" came to grief. He could never bring himself to write to Phebe of defeat. He was once tempted to make up a story of good fortune, but had sufficient good sense left to know that should Fortune continue to frown upon him this would only add to his annoyance. No, it was better she should think him dead than poor. It was three years since his illness came upon him. He struggled against it with a heroism that would have placed him on the top rung if it had been shown earlier and in other ways. Then a feeling of home-sickness came over him; or perhaps it was that he missed the tender ministry of loving hands. But how was he to get home? There was no other way than to work his passage over, and that he must do at once before he got too weak to do so. A berth as assistant-steward was secured, and in a few hours after setting foot on English soil he found himself in the old country town of Hadley. His first impulse was to go straight to Phebe and pour out his heart to her, with all its bitter disappointments. Then his usual cautious habit reasserted itself--he would first of all make inquiries.