Then she told how she had toiled on day after day with dim eye and aching head for over a year in the unwholesome atmosphere of a crowded workshop conducted by a slave-driving, inconsiderate woman named Miss Dillon, while thoughts of home and remorse for the past preyed on her heart.

“But why did you not come back?” asked Fanny.  “We would have received you most gladly.”

“I felt that I could not do that,” said Julia.  “I knew that you thought me dead, and I fancied that father, at least, would feel relieved.”

“Oh, child,” groaned Uncle Joshua, “don’t say so.  I was mighty mean, I know, but I never got to that.”

After a moment Julia told them that she had had to deliver a party dress to Florence Woodburn at Mr. Graham’s house one evening and, while waiting in the hall, had heard Florence read a letter from Nellie Stanton aloud to Alice Graham.  In the letter, Nellie said that Mrs. Middleton was not expected to live and that Dr. Lacey and Fanny from New Orleans were with her.

This news caused her to resign her position at Miss Dillon’s and hurry home.  “I reached Lexington,” said she, “about nine o’clock in the evening, and as I thought my baggage might incommode me, I purposely left it there, but hired a boy to bring me home.  When we reached the gate at the entrance of the woods I told him he could return, as I preferred going the remainder of the way alone.  He seemed surprised, but complied with my request.  I had never heard of the new house, and as I drew near I was puzzled, and fancied I was wrong; but Tiger bounded forward, at first angrily, then joyfully, and I knew I was right.  All about the house was so dark, so still, that a dreadful foreboding filled my heart—­a fear that mother might be dead.  I remembered the little graveyard and instantly bent my steps thither.  I saw the costly marble and the carefully kept grave, and a thrill of joy ran through my veins, for they told me I was kindly remembered in the home I had so darkened.  But another object riveted my attention.  It was a fresh mound, and I knew full well who rested there.  Never have I shed such tears of anguish as fell upon the sod which covers my sainted mother.  In the intensity of my grief I was not conscious of Fanny’s approach until she stood near me.  The rest you know; and now, father, will you receive to your home and affection one who has so widely strayed?”

“Willin’ly, most willin’ly,” said Uncle Joshua, as he folded her to his bosom, “and if I had done as I or’to, a heap of this wouldn’t have happened.  Oh, I didn’t or’to do so, I didn’t; and I ain’t goin’ to any more.  You shall live with me when Sunshine’s gone; and we would be so happy, if your poor mother could only see us and know it all.”

From that time nothing could exceed Uncle Joshua’s kindness to his daughter.  He seemed indeed trying to make up for the past, and frequently he would whisper to himself, “No, I didn’t or’to do so.  I see more and more that I didn’t.”  Still his fondness for Fanny was undiminished, and occasionally, after looking earnestly at both his children, he would exclaim, “Hang me, if I don’t b’lieve Sunshine is a heap the handsomest”; but if these words caused Julia any emotion, ’twas never betrayed.