"But oh, Christie, what it cost me to do this, may thee never know! I saw she repented her promise, given in a moment of impulsive generosity; and I resolved that that promise I would never call upon her to redeem.
"One morning she made her appearance at the breakfast-table, looking pale, wild, and terrified. We all thought she was ill, but she said she was not; she had had bad dreams, she said, forcing a smile, and a headache, but a walk in the breezy morning air would cure that.
"After breakfast as I stood leaning against a tree, thinking sadly of all I had lost, she came up to me, and laying her hand on my shoulder, said:
"'Cousin Reuben, I have seemed cold and distant to you for the past few days, and I fear I have offended you. Can you forgive me?'
"She spoke hurriedly, and with a certain wildness in her manner, but I did not notice it then. I thought she was about to be my own Bertha again, and how readily that forgiveness was given, I need not tell thee. She stooped down and kissed my hand while I spoke, and then, without a word, started off down the street at a rapid walk, from which she never came back."
Uncle Reuben paused, and his hands trembled so that for a moment he could not go on with his work. Then, recovering himself, he continued:
"All that day passed, and she did not return; and when night came we began to wonder at her delay. Still, we were not uneasy, for we thought she had stopped all night at the house of some friend; but the next day passed, and the next, and nothing more was heard of her. Then we grew alarmed; and I was about to rouse the neighborhood and go in search of her, when a letter was brought to me in her well-known writing.
"A terrible thought flashed across my mind at the sight. I sank into a chair, tore it open, and read:
"'COUSIN REUBEN:—I have gone—fled from you all forever. Do not search for me, for it will be useless. I cannot ask you to forgive me, I have wronged you too deeply for that; but do not curse the memory of the unworthy
'BERTHA.'