To Derrice, lying pale and languid ever since the night that made her an orphan, Miss Gastonguay daily bore a description of Chelda's latest designs in ornamentation. One day it was a huge white cross outlined in a bank of ferns; another, a white heart covered the rooting sod and gaping earth-seams. To-day there was a carpet of variegated bloom scenting the air for yards around with a delicious perfume. With dry eyes, but with the same unearthly brightness of face, Miss Gastonguay stooped and passed her hand caressingly over a pillow of flowers laid at the head of the grave, then talking softly to herself she proceeded to the wood. She had no pain, no distress. Soon--perhaps in the night, perhaps next day--would come the terrible anguish in her chest, the wild struggle for breath. She must not go far from the house, she would halt by the old playground where she had romped with her little brother, and barely entering the wood she sat down in the shade of some underbrush beside the pond. How fair was this world! How transcendent must be the beauty of the other world to eclipse this! She leaned back against a tree and mused on deep and unutterable things until there was a soft footfall beside her. "Dear pony," she said, and, with a new fondness added to her old fondness for all created things, she stroked the head dropped caressingly before her. After a time she started to get up, but could not do so. "Ah," she said, quietly, and she lay back against the tree. A carpenter going home with his tools a few minutes later had occasion to pass the pond. He touched his hat when he saw her, and was greeted calmly and called to her side. "Can you give me a pencil and a piece of paper, Mr. Munro, and if you are not in a hurry would you be kind enough to go and sit yonder for a short time? If I do not speak at the end of ten minutes come to me. I want to send a message to my niece, and shall be obliged if you will leave it at the door as you go by." The man cheerfully complied with her request. In common with the whole town, he had heard that she was not likely to live long, but she looked better to-day than he had ever seen her before. Her eye was bright,--almost triumphant. Perhaps she had conquered her complaint. Miss Gastonguay fingered the broad-pointed pencil. "Only ten minutes, perhaps less. I am not mistaken this time,--let me make haste," and, laying the paper on a flat stone beside her, she wrote firmly: "To Chelda, my beloved niece. The conversation will not take place, but I forgive, fully, freely. May God bless you. Forget the past,--forget, forget. Look steadily forward. Leave French Cross and be happy. My blessing always,--always. Never forget it. Nothing would change it, nothing you could say or do. No one has told me anything, but I suspected and know the truth."