wrote you ere she left her home. Not wishing to ask you anything in regard to the subject as I saw you avoided it, I wrote to uncle Leonard and enclosed a copy of the letter. And now I will leave you with his reply, and a letter for you which was enclosed in mine. Good night, dear aunt Barbara."
As Etta concluded she arose and throwing her arms around her aunt's neck, she pressed a kiss upon her brow, and stole softly from the room. Hour after hour passed and still Barbara sat there in the moonlight. Could it be true, this strange story her niece had told her. It seemed too much like a romance—such mistakes often happened in them, but in real life—never. And yet there were many circumstances that went to prove the strange story to be true. She remembered many incidents that had occurred at the time of Clayton Arnold's stay in L, which should have told her the truth at the time. Yes, it must have been a mistake. How she had wronged her sister and Leonard all these years. The dawn of another day found her still sitting with his letter in her hand unread. It had been joy enough just at first for her to know that he had never been untrue to her. When, an hour after dawn, Etta came quietly into the room, her aunt arose and came forward to greet her with a face so full of joy that all the impress of grief her long suffering had placed there was effaced and Etta hardly recognized the voice that spoke to her, so full of happiness was it as she said, "He will be with us soon my dear, perhaps today, as he intended starting immediately after writing this letter. I can hardly realize the truth yet, it seems like a dream."
She said no more, and during the next few days she never once alluded to the subject, but kept quietly on in the same old routine of household duties. At length upon the fourth day after receiving the letter announcing Leonard Arnold's intended visit, as Barbara sat by her favorite window, a tall, gentlemanly form came slowly up the flower-bordered pathway to the door, and a moment later there came a low knock. Trembling like a frightened schoolgirl, Barbara arose to answer the summons. She opened the door, and stood face to face with her old lover. There was an eager, searching look into the tearful blue eyes raised to his face, and then the little hands were caught in a strong, firm clasp, and the words, "Barbara at last, thank God," and then he entered the little cottage and the door was closed. It chanced that Etta was away when he arrived, but when she returned two hours later she found a very happy couple awaiting her. "My dear," said her uncle, drawing her to his side, "we owe all our present happiness to you, for if it had not been for you I would never have found your aunt. I was away from home when your letter reached the city, therefore did not receive it until I returned home six weeks after its arrival. I was delayed three days by the sudden death of my partner, but I am here at last. And now Etta you must help me to prevail upon your aunt for a speedy wedding. I have waited nearly twenty years—it will be just twenty next Sabbath—and I think I should have my reward. Your aunt thinks she cannot possibly be ready in four days, but I insist that she can and you must help her."
"That I will dear uncle. We shall have ample time for what little preparation is really necessary," replied Etta, her face beaming with joy.
And so it came about that upon the next Sabbath a small bridal party consisting of Leonard Arnold and Barbara Clay, accompanied by Etta Arnold and the aged clergyman's sweet-faced granddaughter, entered the little church where the simple service was performed that made Barbara Clay the wife of Leonard Arnold, and the happiest woman the sun ever shone upon. The day following, Mrs. Arnold presented the good clergyman with a deed of the little cottage and its furniture, and bidding adieu to the village which had so long been her home, she and her husband, accompanied by Etta, set out for the elegant home awaiting them in a distant city. In the sunlight of her un-
