The light fell around her like a halo. It touched the gold of her hair to luminous brightness, shone on one fair cheek, round uncovered arm and graceful shoulder, and swept downward to the floor, where violet shadows lay in the rich soft folds of her gown. What incomparable loveliness to be given to death, and such a hideous death! but no shrinking, no regret moved her. The knowledge of her father’s treachery had decided her. She rose, reverently kissed the crucifix, and, returning to her room, began to make her preparations. She caressed the lilac gown, as she unlaced it to exchange it for the white satin and wedding veil. They should be her shroud, instead of her bridal garments. "Who knows but some happier, more fortunate Euphemia D’Esterre, may wear this beloved gown? If so, I pray that it may bless her with all that has been denied me." It rustled softly, fell away from her to the floor in a shimmering heap, and— When my friends found me I lay in the rustic chair unconscious, with the dew-wet mimosa drooping over me; but when I regained the power of rational thought and speech, it was after a week of delirious illness. The Magnoliaville physician said that it had been, coming on for some time, and was the result of overwrought nerves, aggravated by my exposure on the lawn that night, and his explanation was readily accepted, while my story of the lilac gown and Euphemia D’Esterre’s sad death was set aside as a dream, or the ravings of fever. Perhaps it was a dream, but I shall always have doubts, and I shall always believe that old gown imparted to me the secret of her death, and brought back prosperity to the D’Esterres. I wondered what had become of that box of papers—if it had been destroyed, or if Uncle Peter could have it in his possession. That did not seem probable, still I determined to make sure, and one evening, when my mother left me alone in the sitting-room, I stole away through the garden to Uncle Peter’s cabin. My sudden appearance startled him, and without giving him time to recover, I sternly said: "Uncle Peter, where is that box of papers?" A cunning gleam shot into his eyes. "What yo’ talkin’ ’bout, honey?" "The papers Euphemia’s father left." "What yo’ know ’bout dem, Miss Phemy? Did—did yo’ see ’er too?" The thought sending an ashen hue to his face. "Yes, I saw her," I said, solemnly. He groaned. "Honey, hit wus fo’ Marse Albert’s sake. I tuk en kep’ ’em so ez ’e couldn’t fine ’em when ’is pa died." He looked at me imploringly. "Let ’em be, honey—let ’em be." "Give them to me, Uncle Peter," I said gently, but firmly.