She loved her husband devotedly, and his cruel desertion of her--for she knew now it was that--hurt her more than years of suffering with him could have done.

Occasionally she heard from Arthur, who was still busy in search of the delinquent, and who always sent in his letter a substantial proof of his friendship and generosity.
And so the weeks and months went by; and then, one day, there came a letter in the well-known handwriting.

But it was Mrs.Crawford who opened it and read that Harold Hastings was dead: that Amy was free, and that Arthur Tracy, who through all had loved her just as well as when he first asked her to be his wife, now put the question again, offering to make her the mistress of Tracy Park and surround her with every possible comfort.
'Say yes, darling Amy,' he wrote, 'and we may yet be very happy.

I will be a good husband to you and a father to your child, who shall share my fortune as if he were my own.

Answer at once, telling me to come, and, before you know it I shall be there to claim you for my wife.' With a low moan, Mrs.Crawford hid her face in her hands and sobbed aloud, for the Amy who might have been the honored wife of Arthur Tracy lay dead in her coffin; and that day they buried her under the November snow, which was falling in great sheets upon the frozen ground.