“MRS. HELEN DINNEFORD: MADAM--My physician tells me that I cannot live a week--may die at any moment; and I am afraid to die with one unconfessed and unatoned sin upon my conscience--a sin into which I was led by you, the sharer of my guilt. I need not go into particulars. You know to what I refer--the ruin of an innocent, confiding young man, your daughter's husband. I do not wonder that he lost his reason! But I have information that his insanity has taken on the mildest form, and that his friends are only keeping him at the hospital until they can get a pardon from the governor. It is in your power and mine to establish his innocence at once. I leave you a single mouth in which to do this, and at the same time screen yourself, if that be possible. If, at the end of a month, it is not done, then a copy of this letter, with a circumstantial statement of the whole iniquitous affair, will be placed in the hands of your husband, and another in the hands of your daughter. I have so provided for this that no failure can take place. So be warned and make the innocence of George Granger as clear as noonday. “LLOYD FREELING.” Twice Edith read this letter through before a sign of emotion was visible. She looked about the room, down at herself, and again at the letter. “Am I really awake?” she said, beginning to tremble. Then the glad but terrible truth grappled with her convictions, and through the wild struggle and antagonism, of feeling that shook her soul there shone into her face a joy so great that the pale features grew almost radiant. “Innocent! innocent!” fell from her lips, over which crept a smile of ineffable love. But it faded out quickly, and left in its place a shadow of ineffable pain. “Innocent! innocent!” she repeated, now clasping her hands and lifting her eyes heavenward. “Dear Lord and Saviour! My heart is full of thankfulness! Innocent! Oh, let it be made as clear as noonday! And my baby, Lord--oh, my baby, my baby! Give him back to me!” She fell forward upon her bed, kneeling, her face hidden among the pillows, trembling and sobbing. “Edith! Edith!” came the agitated voice of her father from without. She rose quickly, and opening the door, saw his pale, convulsed countenance. “Quick! quick! Your mother!” and Mr. Dinneford turned and ran down stairs, she following. On reaching the dining-room, Edith found her mother lying on a sofa, with the servants about her in great excitement. Better than any one did she comprehend what she saw. “Dead,” fell almost coldly from her lips. “I have sent for Dr. Radcliffe. It may only be a fainting fit,” answered Mr. Dinneford. Edith stood a little way off from her mother, as if held from personal contact by an invisible barrier, and looked upon her ashen face without any sign of emotion. “Dead, and better so,” she said, in an undertone heard only by her father. “My child! don't, don't!” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford in a deprecating whisper. “Dead, and better so,” she repeated, firmly.