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?"