“Oh, Charlie,” she exclaimed, “he would forgive me, I know, if he knew how much I suffered during those terrible days, when I thought of giving my hand without my heart. The very idea set my brain on fire and my head has ached, oh, so hard since then, but it’s over now, for I conquered at last, and on the night before the wedding, I resolved to tell him all, how I could not and would not marry him. But a dark cloud, which seemed like the rushing of mighty waters, came over me, and I don’t know where I am, nor what has happened, only _he_ has been here, hanging like a shadow over my pillow, where sat another shadow tenfold blacker, which he said was death; but grim and hideous as it was, I preferred it to a life with him, when my whole soul was given to another. He, too, was here occasionally, and in his presence the shadow grew less and less, while his voice called me back from the deep darkness in which I was groping. Once, when I was almost home, so near that I heard the song which little Jamie sings—Jamie, who died so long ago—he laid his cool hand upon my forehead, which was wet with the waters of the rolling river, and I heard him say to some one, ‘Look up; she is better, she will live.’ The next moment he was gone, but I struggled with the waves and floated back to the shore, where, though I could not see him, _his_ hand was stretched out to save me, and for a time he stood between me and Dr. Clayton, who, when he thought nobody heard him, whispered in my ear, ‘my bride—my own.’ But from my inmost soul I answered, ‘Never, never,’ while I looked again towards the river which is still in sight, though slowly receding from view.” She paused a moment and then continued: “When I am dead, Charlie, you must tell him how it was, and ask him to forgive and think with pity of poor little Rose, who would have loved him if she could. If he will not listen—if he still persists in marrying me, tell him I would rather die ten thousand deaths than wed a man I do not love, and then his pride will come to his aid. But not a word of this to Mr. Delafield, Charlie, never let _him_ know how I loved him. My affection is not returned, and he would despise me—would never visit my grave or think with pity of one who died so far away from home.” Then followed a message for the loved ones of Meadow Brook, but this Dr. Clayton did not hear. Perfectly paralyzed, he had listened to her story until his reason seemed in danger of leaving him, and long ere she had finished he knew he must give her up—but not to _death_; and as Richard Delafield had done, so he, in this his hour of bitter trial, felt how much rather he would see her in her coffin than the wife of another. Then in his ear the tempter whispered, “Why need these things be? She is not yet out of danger. A little relaxation of care on your part, and Richard Delafield will never call her his.”