please, why I get more frightened and more
sorry yet, when I have all the four letters
that she writes to me. They begin here,
with the first, at my left hand; and they
grow shorter, and shorter, and shorter, as
they get nearer to my right, till the last
is but eight little lines. Again, see, if you
please. The writing of the first letter, here,
at my left hand, is very fine—I mean it is
very fine to me, because I love Sarah, and
because I write very badly myself—but it is
not so good in the second letter; it shakes
a little, it blots a little, it crooks itself a little,
in the last lines. In the third it is worse—
more shake, more blot, more crook. In the
fourth, where there is least to do, there is
still more shake, still more blot, still more
crook, than in all the other three put together.
I see this; I remember that she was
weak, and worn, and weary, when she left
me, and I say to myself, She is ill, though
she will not tell it, for the writing betrays
her!"

Rosamond looked down again at the letters,
and followed the significant changes for the
worse in the handwriting, line by line, as the
old man pointed them out.

"I say to myself that," he continued, "I
wait, and think a little; and I hear my own
heart whisper to me, Go you, Uncle Joseph,
to London, and, while there is yet time, bring
her back to be cured, and comforted and
made happy in your own home! After that,
I wait, and think a little again—not about
leaving my business; I would leave it for
ever sooner than Sarah should come to
harm—but about what I am to do to get her
to come back. That thought makes me look
at the letters again; the letters show me
always the same questions about Mistress
Frankland; I see it plainly as my own hand
before me, that I shall never get Sarah, my
niece, back, unless I can make easy her mind
about those questions of Mistress Frankland's
that she dreads as if there was death to her
in every one of them. I see it! it makes my
pipe go out; it drives me up from my chair;
it puts my hat on my head; it brings me
here, where I have once intruded myself
already, and where I have no right, I know,
to intrude myself again; it makes me beg
and pray now, of your compassion for my
niece, and of your goodness for me, that you
will not deny me the means of bringing Sarah
back. If I may only say to her, I have seen
Mistress Frankland, and she has told me
with her own lips that she will ask none
of those questions that you fear so much
—if I may only say that, Sarah will
come back with me, and I shall thank you
every day of my life for making me a happy
man!"

The simple eloquence of the old man's
words, the innocent earnestness of his manner,
touched Rosamond to the heart. "I
will do anything, I will promise anything,"
she answered eagerly, " to help you to bring
her back! If she will only let me see her,
I promise not to say one word that she would
not wish me to say; I promise not to ask one
question—no, not one—that it will pain her
to answer. O, what comforting message
can I send besides! what can I say! "—
she stopped confusedly, feeling her husband's
foot touching her's again.

"Ah, say no more! say no more! " cried
Uncle Joseph, tying up his little packet of
letters, with his eyes sparkling and his ruddy
face all in a glow." Enough said to bring
Sarah back! enough said to make me grateful
for all rny life! O, I am so happy, so happy,
so happy, my skin is too small to hold me!"
He tossed up the packet of letters into the
air, caught it, kissed it, and put it back again
in his pocket, all in an instant.

"You are not going?" said Rosamond.
"Surely you are not going yet?"

"It is my loss to go away from here,
which I must put up with, because it is
also my gain to get sooner to Sarah," said
Uncle Joseph. " For that reason only, I
shall ask your pardon if I take my leave,
with my heart full of thanks, and go my
ways home again."

"When do you propose to start for London,
Mr. Buschmann? " inquired Leonard.

"To-morrow, in the morning, early, sir,"
replied Uncle Joseph. " I shall finish the
work that I must do to-night, and shall
leave the rest to Samuel, my man, and shall
then go to Sarah by the first coach."

"May I ask for your niece's address in
London, in case we wish to write to you?"

"She gives me no address, sir, but the
post-office; for even at the great distance of
London, the same fear that she had all the
way from this house, still sticks to her.
But here is the place where I shall get my
own bed," continued the old man, producing
a small shop card. "It is the house of a
countryman of my own, a fine baker of
buns, sir, and a very good man indeed."

"Have you thought of any plan for finding
out your niece's address? inquired Rosamond,
copying the direction on the card while
she spoke.

"Ah, yes,—for I am always quick at
making my plans," said Uncle Joseph. "I
shall present myself to the master of the
post, and to him I shall say just this and
no more: 'Good morning, sir. I am the
man who writes the letters to S. J. She is
my niece, if you please; and all that I want
to know is, Where does she live? ' There
is something like a plan, I think. A-ha!"
He spread out both his hands interrogatively,
and looked at Mrs. Frankland with a
self-satisfied smile.

"I am afraid," said Rosamond, partly
amused, partly touched by his simplicity,
"that the people at the post-office are not
at all likely to be trusted with the address.
I think you would do better to take a letter
with you, directed to 'S. J.;' to deliver it in