And still she read on, taking next the second letter, the one which had contained the lock of hair, and which was written two or three months after the first. Evidently Mr. Hetherton had been in Marseilles and seen the writer, for she spoke of his recent visit and the great pleasure it had given her. It was in this letter that she called herself _his little Tina_, and had written: “I have been sick most of the time since you were here, and that is why I did not answer your letter at once. You were so kind to me and treated me with so much tenderness that I cannot help believing you mean to make me your wife before the world just as you said you made me your wife before Heaven. But why put it off any longer? Can you not bring a clergyman here, and not wait till people call me a bad woman, which God knows I never meant to be. Oh, if you would take me to Chateau des Fleurs as your wife. I would be your very slave and make up to you in love and fidelity what I lack in culture. You say I am very pretty. You praised my eyes and hair when you were here, and so I send you a lock of the latter, and hope it will sometimes remind you of your little Tina.” “That’s the tress I burned,” Queenie whispered, feeling as if she, too, were burning and writhing on live coals just as the lock of blue-black hair had writhed and hissed in the flame. But there was still another letter, and she read it, while every hair of her head seemed to stand on end, and instead of burning with heat she shook with cold, as she devoured the contents, which threw such a flood of light upon what had gone before, and which she had not suspected. She had read enough to make her hate Christine, and almost hate her father, who, she felt, was most to blame, but she had no suspicion of the real state of things until she began to read the third letter, which showed great physical weakness on the part of the writer. “Dear Mr. Hetherton,” it began, “I have been so sick that the old woman who attends me thought I should die, but I am better now, though still so weak as scarcely to be able to hold my pen. But I must tell you of my dear little girl who was born two weeks ago, and who now lies sleeping at my side.” “_What!_” Reinette exclaimed, aloud, clasping both hands to her forehead as if a heavy blow had fallen there. “What does she say? A little girl born in Marseilles—that was—_Margery_.” She could scarcely articulate the last word, for her tongue was thick and parched, and in her ears was a sound like the roar of the wind outside.