Her tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she brushed them away and looked half indignantly at Guy, who laughed merrily as he said: “The absurdity of your sending money to Roger. He does not need it; take my word for that. The house is old, old as the hills, I reckon, judging from its architecture, but very comfortable and neat as a lady’s slipper. I saw no marks of poverty. The neighbors did not send in anything while I was there, and we had a grand dinner. I dined with him, you see, on solid silver, too, with wine and Malaga grapes; though come to think of it, the grapes were a present from Frank, who sent a box from New York. That Frank is living fast and doing the magnificent on a great scale, I reckon, but I’d rather be Roger than he.” “Didn’t Roger say anything to my note?” Magdalen asked, more interested in that than in Frank and Malaga grapes. “No, he didn’t, except, ‘Tell Magdalen I will answer this by and by,’” Guy said; “but he seemed glad for you in one sense, and then again he didn’t. I should say, if I am any judge of mankind, that he was afraid that the gulf between the rich Miss Grey and the poor Mr. Irving was wider than he could span, but I may be mistaken; at all events it is sure to come right in time. As I said before, he is a splendid chap, and you have my consent.” Guy was very hopeful, very comforting, and Magdalen felt better after this talk with him, and looked anxiously for the letter which Roger was to send, and which came at last. A kind, brotherly letter, in which he said how glad he was for her that she had found her friends, and disclaimed all idea of her having ever brought trouble to him. “You have been the source of the greatest happiness I have ever enjoyed,” he wrote; “and I would give a dozen fortunes rather than not have known you, and enjoyed you for the few years I called you mine, my sister, my child, my _Magda_. Once I could have cursed the man who lured my mother to her ruin, and cursed his children, too; but I did not then dream that such a curse would cover the beautiful child of my adoption. Heaven bless you, Magda, in _all_ your new relations! Heaven make you happy in them as you deserve to be! Once I hoped I might see you at Schodick, and I have thought how I would take you around the old farm, and to the places hallowed by my mother’s footsteps, and pictured to myself just what you would say, and just how you would look. But that dream is over now. I cannot ask you to come. You would not care to, nor your father care to have you. Remember me to him, if you like. Since I know he is your father, I feel no bitterness toward him. Good-by! And God bless you, and bring you, at last, to the Heaven where I hope to find my little girl again!”