When they were gone, and the friends too, and that silence and strange vacancy fell on the house, which is deep in proportion to the love for the fair inmate carried away, Letty, who had worn on that morning something of her former bloom and gaiety, dashed with happy tears, said to her mother and father as they sat together in their old sitting-room, “None of us will ever forget the presentiment of Mrs. Heritage at our memorable May fête, for how strangely has it been realised? But perhaps you have forgotten that she pointed to an afterglow, and said that the days after the gloom should be more lovely and happy than before. As that dear, good woman spoke truth in one part of her prediction, I shall believe that she did in the other. Is not the present happy issue of that hideous, odious darkness a proof and a commencement of it? Is not this happy day another proof? And now I will read you a letter from my husband, which, though it may seem to you sad, is to me full of the happiest confidence.”
“What! have you at last heard from Thorsby again?” said her mother.
“Yes, dear mother; it is now seven months since I heard, and I began to have some serious fears of what might have befallen him: but you shall hear:—
“Cincinnati, March 7th, 18—.
“My Dearest Letty,—Probably you have thought me dead, and were not very sorry for it. No; you have always, even in the worst periods of my wretched life, shown such an admirable love for me, so undeserved, so badly requited; you have had such a wonderful faith in my coming some day right side uppermost, that I still flatter myself that you will be glad to see my hand-writing again. But the truth is, I have been at Death’s door, and all but in his ancient house. When I wrote to you in the autumn, I said I was going into Indiana. I had heard rumours of a man who very much resembled the one I was wanting to come up with, though out of no love to him, and was making my way to Indianopolis. I had reached a village not far from the Wabash, in a deep valley, and amongst enormous woods, where clearings and cultivation are but partial and scattered. I put up at a rude wooden public-house, where I was very miserably accommodated, but that was nothing new to me. When I came out of my room in the morning, which was on the ground-floor, my landlord, a tall, lanky woodsman, said, ‘Stranger, I guess I have but poor news for you. Some one in the night has entered the shed, and ridden off with your horse.’
“In my astonishment and consternation, I asked him why he thought so. ‘Just,’ said he, ‘because the crittur is not there.’ I rushed out as if I would be satisfied, but my horse, saddle, and bridle had disappeared, and my landlord, for my consolation, assured me that such scamps going through the country were often showing such a preference of riding over walking, at any one’s expense. The horror of my situation may be conceived. I had not money with me sufficient to purchase another horse, and to wait for an answer and remittance from New York would throw me into the winter. I determined to set out and reach Indianapolis on foot. For days I walked on in extreme anxiety, through woods, marshes, and intricate hills. Wet through and through, I at length took up my quarters for the night in the inn of another hamlet. The next morning I staggered forward on rising out of bed, from excessive dizziness, and in two or three days lost my consciousness in a delirious attack of fever. A week after that I awoke, weak beyond expression, and unable to move. I was told I had been in a raging condition, and corded down on my bed. It was some time before I could get out of bed, and on looking for my clothes, found my coat gone, and with it the whole of my money. I could get no satisfaction. The people of the house said there had been many strangers coming and going, and some one of them had clearly been a thief.
“What a situation! Here was I, above six hundred miles from New York, without a dollar, and without a full suit of clothing! My watch, too, was gone! I sat down in a mood of absolute despair, and wished I had died in my delirium. The people bade me cheer up, they said they would not charge me anything for their trouble. My inmost conviction was that they need not—they had paid themselves too well out of my property. But what was I to do? The man gave me an old coarse rough coat of his own: I accepted it, for it would prevent me from perishing. But how should I live? Winter was coming down, there was no work, but that of felling timber, and ploughing the new enclosures, and I had no strength for it; besides, the deep snow would soon put an end to that. But there was sufficient food to be had; the people of the inn said I might stay and recruit myself a little. I did so. I believed I owed them nothing, that the balance was really to my credit.
“But there was one man always busy, that was the blacksmith. I heard his hammer ringing on the anvil long before it was light in a morning, and often till late at night. In my lack of anything to occupy my time with, I wandered to his forge, and fell into conversation with him. He had heard my case, and rough as he seemed, he said he felt for me. ‘I wish I could swing a hammer like you,’ I said, ‘I would come and help you, for you seem to have too much to do.’
“‘I wish you could then,’ said he, ‘for I want a help dreadfully. But why should not you soon?’
“I shook my head. ‘I am too weak yet,’ I said.