Charley was his friend's executor. In the fulfilment of his trust, he found a casket marked--"To be given, at my death, to E.--M." He thought of sealing it up, and sending it to her with a note from himself; but decided upon further deliberation, to entrust it to Ida. It was a painful duty. She was not able yet to speak of Lynn without distressing emotion. His decease was so sudden, so awful,--snatched, as he was, from her very side, with the barest intimation of his danger, after months of intimate intercourse. She mourned for him as sisters and friends seldom weep. Charley did not command. "She was the more proper person," he said; "but he would not grieve her by enforcing the request." "I cannot meet her!" said she. "He was so dear to us--how can I endure the sight of her indifference? They say she was calm and careless while they were burying him." "Calm--she certainly was; but the glance I had at her face assured me not careless. I am much mistaken if she was not the greatest sufferer by that grave. I was angry with her, previously; I believe now that she merits our compassion." Yet it was an unwilling heart that Ida carried to the interview. Ellen sent for her to come to her room. "I am busy, you see," said she, with the ghost of a smile. Ida held the precious legacy more tightly, as she noticed her occupation. A ball-dress was spread upon the bed, and she was fastening roses upon the skirt. Her cheek was white, as Ida glanced at her own sad-colored dress. "You are going to the party to-night, then?" said the latter. "Yes--will Josephine attend?" "I have not heard her say--have not inquired--have not thought of it." Despairing of broaching the subject in any other way, she took the casket from under her shawl, and laid it upon the dress. "The living forget sooner than the dead, Ellen!" was all she said. The unhappy girl recoiled at the familiar characters upon the lid, and stretched out her arms with an imploring cry. Ida reached her as she fell. She had fainted. Charley's words were verified, and Ida blamed herself severely for her cruel abruptness. Her tears ran fast, as she strove to restore consciousness "Oh! Ida--Lynn!" groaned Ellen, reviving. Reserve, pride, self-control were borne down;--they wept in each other's arms. With the casket pressed to her bosom, Ellen heard his last message, and the hopeful words he had spoken of the future, he was not to know upon earth. "I did love him! Heaven is my witness--I did love him!" she cried, anguishedly. "He did not condemn me; but I can never forgive myself! If I could have seen him once more to tell him so! Dead! oh! that I were in the grave beside him!" This was grief without a glimmer of hope. Ida had no word of comfort. Ellen's eye fell upon the gossamer robe.--she threw it upon the floor, and trampled it "I hate it! and myself, and everything else! I am a hypocrite! a lying hypocrite! with my hollow smiles and broken heart. Leave me! go! or I shall hate _you!_"