“He went to that great indefinite place called the West, and then his letters came less frequently—not month by month, but yearly, and sometimes not then. Seven years went by, Anna. I had heard nothing of my husband during thirteen months, when a man came to the town where we lived, and told me that he had seen my husband in Philadelphia, where he had established a lucrative business, and was prospering beyond all his expectations. My husband had told him that he had written to England for his wife and child, but had received no answer to his letter. Anna, I had been more than seven years separated from the man I loved better than my own life when this news came. He was waiting for me, he had written, and I had never received his letter. In less than two weeks I had sold out every thing, and was on my way to Liverpool. In two months I landed in New York, after a wretched voyage, which, it seemed to me, would last forever. From New York I went to Philadelphia, and found my husband’s warehouse without trouble. I went in quietly and inquired for him; they told me that he had gone West, and would not be back for months. While I stood, sick at heart, wondering what I should do next, a lady entered the store—one of the handsomest women I ever saw—she was richly dressed, and swept by me like a queen. “‘No letters, yet?’ she said, addressing the clerk. ‘He promised to write from every station.’ “Yes, madam, here is a letter—two, in fact. Those western mails are so uncertain.” “She fairly snatched at the letters, tore one open, and then the other. I saw the handwriting. It was my husband’s. “‘Madam,’ I said, in a low voice, for my throat was husky, ‘who are those letters from? I, too, have friends in the West.’” She lifted her eyes from the letters, for both were in her hand at once, and turned them on my face. “‘Poor lady! I was anxious as you are half an hour ago. Who is this letter from? My own husband. He is safe—he is well. I hope you will have good news also. But excuse, me, I must go. These letters will not be half mine till I read them alone. Good-morning!’ “‘Who is that lady?’ I inquired of the clerk, breathless with strange apprehension. “‘That? Oh! she is Burns’s wife; lately married; an English lady with whom he was in love years ago. She followed him over, I believe—that is, he sent for her. Splendid woman! Don’t you think so?’