“When did this accident happen to you?” the doctor asked. “Four months ago.” “And you two have lived alone at his cabin?” “Yes.” He glanced her over, and looked more puzzled than ever. “You are looking hearty,” he said; “how is it that my friend is in this condition?” “It must have been his care of me and his worry on my account.” This appeared half to satisfy Dr. Mal-bone. “Yes,” he said, “not being a doctor, and being extremely susceptible to the pressure of his duty toward you, he may have worn himself out.” With that he hastily gave the young man a stimulant, and said,-- “Fall to here, men, and help me revive him, else he will be dead before we know it. Chafe his wrists and ankles. Hurry, men, but be gentle. That is good. Slow, there, John; those horny hands of yours are strong and rough. Samson, bring some strong coffee as quickly as God will let you. Rub him under the blankets, men; don’t let him chill. Maybe we can get him out of this pinch. The great thing now is to take him to my house.... Ah, that is good work, lads! His heart is waking up a little. That is good. That is very good.” Dr. Malbone straightened up, and turned to the young woman, again fastening upon her the strange, severe, suspicious, half-threatening look that she had already learned to dread. “I fear there is something unexplained here, madam, something concealed. I am not accusing you. My friend is a strange, fine man, and for good reasons he may have withheld something from you. But he would never hide anything from me. Did he give you a letter for any one?” “He did not.” “Have you seen him writing?” “No.” “Martin, hand me his coat.” Dr. Malbone searched the pockets, and found a sealed letter addressed to him. He tore it open and read. As he read his astonishment grew. When he had finished, he turned a strange, pitying look upon the young woman. “He charges me to give you this when I shall have read it.” He handed her the letter, which she read. It ran thus: “My dear Friend,--This is written to give Miss Andros some unhappy information that she ought to have at the earliest safe and proper moment, and as a precaution against my breaking down before that moment arrives. To have told her at first might have prevented her recovery. The proper moment to tell her will have arrived when she is in safe hands. I trust that they may be yours, and I know that you will show her every kindness that your generous soul can yield. “It is this: Her father lost his life in the accident on the grade, by the falling of a tree upon him. His body rests under the earth in the farther end of the cave into which the rear door of my cabin opens. The grave is marked with a board giving his name. Nailed up in a box near the door are his personal effects. “Give this letter to my afflicted friend. It will convey no hint of the profound sympathy that I feel, nor of what I suffer in thus raising my hand to deal her so cruel a blow.