The wedding, which was to be very private, was to take place the 15th of September, now only two weeks in the distance, and Beatrice was exceedingly busy with her preparations,—so busy that she had not found time to call upon Agnes, as she intended to do when she heard of her arrival at the Forrest House. She had always liked Agnes, and was glad when her maid came to her room saying that she was in the parlor waiting to see her. “Ask her to come up here,” she said, and in a moment Agnes was with her, seeming so agitated and excited that Beatrice guessed at once that something was wrong, and asked what was the matter. It was not in Agnes’ nature to keep one in suspense, and she answered by putting the letter into Beatrice’s hand and saying: “I found it under the carpet, and because I dared not show it to him,—the doctor, I mean,—who I am sure put it there, I brought it to you. Read it quick, and then we must act together; but never let him know I had a hand in it; he would kill me if he did; there’s murder in his nature, or he never could have done this.” Agnes was speaking to ears which did not hear what she was saying, for Bee had taken the letter, postmarked at “Wien,” and addressed in a handwriting she knew so well, and the very sight of which made her heart throb with pain as she remembered the dear little girl whom she believed to be dead in the far-away foreign town. But when she glanced at the date, a vague terror seized her and held her fast while she read the letter, which I give to the reader: “HAELDER-STRAUCHSEN, Austria, June 10th, 18—. “DEAR EVERARD:—Are you dead? Is everybody dead in America, that I am forgotten,—deserted,—and left here alone in this dreadful place? Not dreadful because they are unkind to me, for they are not. Only they say that I am mad, and treat me as such, and I always have an attendant watching what I do, and I cannot get away, though I have tried so many times. Where my brother is I do not know; he left me here more than a year ago, to go to Vienna for a day or two, he said, and I have never seen him since or heard from him; and the head of the house,—Dr. Van Schoisner, says that he is undoubtedly dead; and I might believe him, perhaps, if he did not insist that I am his niece, Myra Van Schoisner, and not Rosamond Hastings at all. He says she died last April, a year ago, and was buried by the river which I can see from my window, and that her brother, Dr. Matthewson, left soon after and has not returned.