It was Daisy’s handwriting, which he had never thought to see again; for after his engagement with Julia he had burned every vestige of a correspondence it was sorrow now to remember. One by one, and with a steady hand, he had dropped Daisy’s letters into the fire and watched them turning into ashes, and thought how like his love for her they were when nothing remained of them but the thin gray tissue his breath could blow away. The four scraps of the marriage settlement which Daisy had brought him on that night of storm he kept, because they seemed to embody something good and noble in the girl; but the letters she had written him were gone past recall, and he had thought himself cut loose from her forever,—when, lo! there had come to him an awakening to the bitterness of the past in a letter from the once-loved wife, whose delicate handwriting made him grow faint and sick for a moment, as he held the letter in his hand and read: "_Guy Thornton, Esq._, "Brown Cottage, "Politeness of Mr. Wilkes. Cuylerville, Mass." Why had she written, and what had she to say to him? he wondered, and for a moment he felt tempted to tear the letter up and never know what it contained. Better, perhaps, had he done so,—better for him, and better for the fond new wife whose happiness was so perfect, and whose trust in his love was so strong. But he did not tear it up. He opened it, and another chapter will tell us what he read. CHAPTER VIII.—DAISY’S LETTER. It was dated at Rouen, France, and it ran as follows: "_Dear, Dear Guy_:—I am all alone here in Rouen, with no one near me who speaks English, or knows a thing of Daisy Thornton, as she was, or as she is now, for I am Daisy Thornton here. I have taken the old name again and am an English governess in a wealthy French family; and this is how it came about: I have left Berlin and the party there, and am earning my own living, for three reasons, two of which concern cousin Tom, and one of which has to do with you and that miserable settlement which has troubled me so much. I thought when I brought it back and tore it up that was the last of it, and felt so happy and relieved. Father missed it, of course; and I told him the truth and that I could never touch a penny of your money if I was not your wife. He did not say a word, and I supposed it was all right, and never dreamed that I was actually clothed and fed on the interest of that ten thousand dollars. Father would not tell me, and you did not write. Why didn’t you, Guy? I expected a letter so long and went to the office so many times and cried a little to myself, and said Guy has forgotten me.