"Then, she was dead!--all in a moment--without a word--before we came to her almost. She had prayed so--and yet God would not leave her a moment in which to hear it. That struck me so. It was so strange, after all the pains--all the clinging to Him--and entreating. It might have been a sign, and there!--she never gave a thought to us. It seemed like an intrusion, a disturbance even to touch her. How horrible it is that death is so _lonely_! Then something was said that reminded me of my father. I had forgotten him for so long. But when they left me with her, I seemed to be holding not her hand, but his. I was back in the old life--I heard him speaking quite distinctly. 'Laura, you cannot do it--_you cannot do it_!' And he looked at me in sorrow and displeasure. I argued with him so long, but he beat me down. And the voice I seemed to hear was not his only,--it was the voice of my own life, only far stronger and crueller than I had ever known it. "Cruel!--I hardly know what I am writing--who has been cruel! I!--only I! To open the old wounds--to make him glad for an hour--then to strike and leave him--could anything be more pitiless? Oh! my best--best beloved.... But to live a lie--upon his heart, in his arms--that would be worse. I don't know what drives me exactly--but the priests want my inmost will--want all that is I--and I know when I sit down to think quietly, that I cannot give it. I knew it last October. But to be with him, to see him, was too much. Oh! if God hears, may He forgive me--I prayed to-night that He would give me courage. "He must always think it an accident--he will. I see it all so plainly.--But I am afraid of saying or doing something to make the others suspect.--My head is not clear. I can't remember from one moment to another. "You understand--I must trouble him no more. And there is no other way. This winter has proved it. Because death puts an _end_. "This letter is for you three only, in all the world. Dear, dear Molly--I sit here like a coward--but I can't go without a sign.--You wouldn't understand me--I used to be so happy as a little child--but since Papa died--since I came here--oh! I am not angry now, not proud--no, no.--It is for love--for love. "Good-bye--good-bye. You were all so good to me--think of me, grieve for me sometimes.-- "Your ever grateful and devoted "LAURA." Next morning early, Helbeck entered the dining-room, where Dr. Friedland was sitting. He approached the doctor with an uncertain step, like one finding his way in the dark. "You had a letter," he said. "Is it possible that you could show it me--or any part of it? Only a few hours before her death the old relations between myself--and Miss Fountain--were renewed. We were to have been husband and wife. That gives me a certain claim." Dr. Friedland grew pale. "My dear sir," he said, rising to meet his host,--"that letter contained a message for my daughter which was not intended for other eyes than hers. I have destroyed it."