“There can be no harm in glancing at the handwriting, and then if I ever see Christine’s, as I sometime may, I shall know if they are the same,” she thought, and took out the yellow, time-worn package, which seemed to her so different from anything pertaining to herself or to her surroundings. Looking at the outside begat an intense longing to know what was inside—to have her doubts confirmed or scattered to the winds, and at last she made a desperate resolve, and jerking her arm, which it seemed to her the dead hand still held firmly, she said, aloud: “I shall read these letters now, though a thousand dead hands hold me.” Queenie felt herself growing very calm as she said this, and though outward the storm raged with greater fury, and the sobbing of the wind was wilder and louder than before, she neither heeded nor heard it, for she had opened the letters, and selecting that which bore date farthest back, began to read. And as she read, she forgot how cold she was—forgot that the fire was going out—forgot the fearful storm which shook the solid foundations of the great house, and screamed like so many demons past the windows—forget even that Phil was dead in the Indian sea, so horrible were the sensations crowding upon her and overmastering every thought and feeling save the one dreadful conviction that _now_ she knew who Tina was, and that the knowledge paralyzed for the time every other sensation. CHAPTER XL. THE LETTERS. They were written at different times, with an interval of some months between two of them—but all were dated at Marseilles, where the writer seemed to be living in lodgings, for in the first letter she said: “The rooms suit me exactly, and are very pleasant and a constant reminder of your kindness. I have found a trusty woman to stay with me, and if I could see you oftener I should be quite content, only I never can forget the sweet lady who died in my arms, believing in me as the best of servants. What would she say if she knew how soon I took her place in your affection? Sometimes I think she is here in the room watching me, and then I am afraid, and rush into the street until the terror is past.” “That was Christine, sure, for mother died in her arms,” Reinette whispered, faintly, while a prickly sensation was in every nerve, and her lips quivered convulsively.