About the same time that this little scene was enacting at Ion, Elsie Leland, passing the door of Evelyn's room, thought she heard a low sob coming from within.
She paused and listened. The sound was repeated, and she tapped lightly on the door. There was no answer; and opening it, she stole softly in.
Evelyn sat in an easy-chair at the farther side of the room, her face hidden in her hands, an open letter lying in her lap.
"My poor child! Is it bad news?" Elsie asked, going up to the little girl, and touching her hair caressingly.
"It is heart-breaking to me, aunt Elsie; but read and judge for yourself," Evelyn replied, in a voice choking with sobs; and taking up the letter, she put it into her aunt's hand.
Elsie gave it a hasty perusal, then, tossing it indignantly aside, took the young weeper in her arms, bestowing upon her tender caresses and soothing words.
"It is hard, very hard for you, dear, I know; it would be for me in your place; but we must just try to make the best of it."
"Yes," sobbed Evelyn; "but I could hardly feel more fully orphaned if my mother were dead. And papa has not been gone a year. Oh, how could she! how could she! You see, aunt Elsie, she talks of my joining her as soon as I am my own mistress; but how can I ever think of it now?"
"We—your uncle and I—would be very loath to give you up, darling; and, if you can only be content, I think you may always have a happy home here, with us," Elsie said, with another tender caress.
"Dear auntie, you and uncle have made it a very happy home to me," returned Evelyn gratefully, wiping away her tears as she spoke, and forcing a rather sad sort of smile. "I should be as sorry to leave it as you could possibly be to have me do so."