. . .Abram Bickley, who read the communication to his wife one morning as the four sat in the dreary garden. It was from a London creditor.

Another June was upon the land,—a wet month more like some silly April than the span of days loved for cheer and sunshine. The two Betseys were out in the Bickley garden gathering drenched roses for the want of something better to do. All of a sudden from the sleepy road there came the[44] clatter of wheels and the clink of a slow nag's feet. Then into view loomed a comfortable chaise of the style afterwards known as the "Postmaster-General." The pair nearly dropped their budholders in the momentary excitement. Rising from her seat and waving a kerchief was a girl. The face they knew well.

"Sarah Franklin, I do believe," called Betsey Bickley. "Yes, yes; 'tis her father with the reins."

"Pappy" and his daughter had come on their long-promised visit to the Bickleys. Sarah Franklin was radiant with . . . Read More