“I have come in to have a long confidential talk with you, my child,” resumed her ladyship. “There should be between you and me strangely tender relations. Your poor dear father desired us to be all the world to each other, and for his sake, as well as your own, I intend to be a true and good mother to you.” “Thank you, madam,” said Neva, gravely, yet gratefully. “I will try to deserve your kindness, and to be a daughter to you.” “You do not call me mother,” suggested Lady Wynde, reproachfully. The young girl colored, and her brilliant eyes were suddenly shadowed. Her scarlet lips quivered an instant, as she said gently: “Pardon me, dear Lady Wynde, but one has but one mother. I love my dead mother as if she were living, even though I know her only through my dear father’s description of her. I cannot give you her name, and I think it would hardly be appropriate. You are too young to be called mother by a grown-up girl. Does it not seem so to you?” “Possibly you are right. Suit yourself, my dear. I seek only your happiness. I can be a mother to you, even if you decline to give me the name.” “And I can equally be a daughter to you, dear Lady Wynde,” said Neva. “We shall be like sisters, I trust. And I desire to say that I hope you will consider yourself as fully mistress of Hawkhurst as when poor papa was here. I shall not interfere with your rule here, even if I may, until I attain my majority. While I live, my home shall be a home to my father’s widow.” “You are very kind, my dear. All these things will settle themselves hereafter. I have now to deliver to you a last message from your dear father--a message, as I might say, from the grave. Your father’s voice speaks to you from the other world, my dear Neva, and I know that you will heed its call.” Her ladyship drew forth the packet of letters, and laid them on Neva’s knee. “You have there,” continued Lady Wynde, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “the last letter I ever received from my dear husband. You may read it. You will see that he had a presentiment of his approaching death; that a gloom hung upon him that he could not shake off. That letter was written the night before his tragic death.” Neva opened the letter with trembling hands and read it, even to the postscript upon the last page which had been forged by the cunning hand of Craven Black. Her tears fell as she read it.