Aunt Wealthy had always been very dear to these nieces and nephews, but now that they were about to lose her, it seemed to them that they had never realized half her worth.
They lingered near her, they hung upon her words and looks, and when the time for parting came, clung about her with sobs and tears, loading her with caresses, till she was forced to tear herself from their embraces and hurry away.
The stage had drawn up before the gate; she hastened down the garden path, the weeping children running after; Mr. Keith and Mr. Mocker assisted her into the vehicle, the latter took his place by her side, and in another moment she was whirled away out of sight, all drowned in tears, and leaving the others in like condition.
"It seems just like a funeral!" sobbed Ada, "oh, will she never, never come back any more!"
"Perhaps she may, dear," said the mother, wiping away her own tears, "we will try to think so at least, and be cheerful and happy in looking forward to that time. And in the meanwhile we may hope for a letter now and then."
"Oh," cried Rupert, "that reminds me that there's a letter in the office for you now, mother! I saw it there, but had no money with me to pay the postage. If you'll give me the two shillings, I'll run and get it now."
"Do so, my son," Mrs. Keith said, giving him the money. "I'm sorry you forgot it and did not get it out in time for Aunt Wealthy to see it."
Letters were rarities in those days, and the older members of the family awaited Rupert's return from the post-office with a good deal of eagerness, not unmixed with anxiety.
He was not long gone for he too was curious in regard to it, desirous to learn its contents and who was the writer.
"It's post marked Detroit," he said, delivering it to his mother. "I can't think who'd be likely to write to any of us from there.