Thus it is that as she and Dan sit looking sadly at each other, Dan is comforted by what he sees, and she is no less so. Their mutual faith in the purity of the absent dear ones is inexpressibly consoling to them. Unconsciously each gives to the other strength to bear the bitterness of the shock. But when their eyes turn to the book which they are to read to-night, they hesitate and tremble, What may not those dumb pages reveal! The place, the time, and all its surrounding circumstances are solemn and mournful. The presence of Death; the silence that strikes greater terror than brazen tongue of accusation; the gloom of the mean apartment, in the corners of which lurk fears made awful by the black shadow which inwraps them--these things and their influence impress with a deeper sadness those two young hearts. What wonder that they hesitate and tremble as they look upon the book in which the words of their dead friend are recorded? Joshua is on the sea, and each moment adds to the distance that separates him from his friends; Minnie is gone also; Basil, alas, is dead; and all that remains to light the mystery is the dumb witness that lies before them. But hesitation soon yields to indomitable faith. "Ellen," says Dan, laying his hand upon the book, "perhaps the worst of this day's trials is here. Are you prepared for it?" "Yes, Dan," answers Ellen with a steady light in her eyes. "Susan's words were very dreadful," continues Dan; "but she does not know Jo as we know him. Come, we will read what is here written. And if it accuses your dear husband and my dear friend, our hearts will defend him. His memory will be dearer to us because he is unjustly accused; and we will wait hopefully and patiently for his return, please God, and never, never waver." And drawing Ellen closer to him, Dan opened the book, and in a subdued voice read what follows. CHAPTER XXVI. BASIL KINDRED'S DIARY. I make this record for various reasons, the strongest of which is the conviction that I have not long to live. Although my mind is in a state of sad confusion, what I write shall be no phantasy of the brain. I pledge myself to this. And I pledge myself also to throw down my pen when the suspicion comes upon me that, because of my fears and my agony, I am writing what is not strictly the fact. If I do not thus pledge myself, and death comes upon me unaware, this mute witness might be the cause of bringing undeserved unhappiness to persons whose conduct towards me has been wonderfully good and noble. Let me read what I have written. Yes, it is clear, and it gives me the assurance that, to-day at least, I shall be able to express myself clearly. I pause over every word. I am careful of the construction of every sentence. For I must be just. I could not rest in my grave if my fear spoke instead of my reason.