Mechanically the widow tore off the envelope, and opened the epistle. Let us read it with her, for Grace Lovering is born to a new life when those contents are made known to her—she dwells no longer in the so lonely present, or the sad past. For her also the future is alive again. She did not look for a resurrection so sudden and so strange—did you? “Grace, dear Grace Germain, from the sands of the desert my voice, perhaps long, long forgotten, comes to you again. It is night, ‘night in Arabia,’ and I am for a moment alone; my traveling companions are gone to their rest, but I—I cannot sleep, and so have come from out my tent to write by the light of the burning stars once again to her who _was_ the little girl I knew and loved in childhood. You may think my man’s estate has been reached unworthily, because I still love to think of boyish hours, and long so to recall them—yes, that is it, _long to recall them_. Are you yourself unable to think of them as the very blessedest days you ever knew? If it is so, Grace, how idly will my words fall on your ear. “I know nothing of what has been the fate of the child I loved so well. I know not if you are the bride of another, or, perchance, I may be addressing myself to one who no longer has a name on the earth; but even if the idol of my boyish years is living for, and to another, I can pray for and bless her. Yes, I pray God to bless you, Grace Germain. I cannot and will not believe that the _woman_ to whom I address myself, is no more. There is something whispering to my spirit now, it is not so. I feel to-night a strong conviction, an irresistible presentiment that you and I will meet again. I dare not think _how_, but this I know, if it is not in this world, we shall know one another hereafter. “If you remember me at all, I know it is only as the wild and trifling boy who loved you better than his books, better than all children he ever knew. You know me not at all as the stern, time-tried, care-worn man, who has fought fierce battles with fortune and life, who finds himself wasting the powers of his manhood, far severed from all domestic, humanizing ties, treasuring in his heart only one name that makes the joyful recollection of his youth—careless, cold, and selfish perhaps, but never losing hold of that one, dear link to the affection, the lasting, undying affection that was born of you in my youthful soul, and still, still preserves its strength _through_ you.