My dear Friend:—I would most cheerfully take your daughter into my family, did my wife's health, which has been failing all the summer, allow of her assuming any additional care.
I think, however, I can provide Selma with a home equally as good as my own; one where good influences will be about her, and she will have the best educational advantages. I refer to the family of Mr. David Gray, of Cambridge, Massachusetts. He was my father's friend. The years I was a boy with Russell, Rollins & Co., I was an inmate of his house, and my adopted son, Frank, is now in his care. His daughter Alice is a most suitable person to have charge of a young girl. She is like a sister to me, and to oblige me, would no doubt take Selma.
Please advise me of your wishes; and believe, my dear friend, I will do all in my power to serve you.
I was sitting down at supper, one evening, about a fortnight after sending this letter, when a gentleman was announced as wishing to see me. I rose and went into the parlor. It was Preston, and with him was Selma, then a beautiful little girl of about eleven years.
Asking Preston to lay aside his outside coat, I was struck by his altered appearance. It was four years since we had met, but looking at him, I imagined it might be ten. His eyes were sunken, deep furrows were about his mouth, and his brown hair was thickly streaked with gray.
'My dear friend,' I exclaimed, as I grasped his hand a second time, 'you are not well!'
'I am as well as usual, Kirke. Time has not done this!'
Fatigued with the long journey, Selma had retired, and our own little ones were in bed, when Kate joined us in the parlor.
'You do look ill, Mr. Preston,' she said, seating herself beside him. 'You must stay a while with us, and rest.'
'I would be glad to stay here, madam—anywhere away from home.'
'The care of two plantations, such as yours, must be a burden!'