With some difficulty they turned her, for they were not so clever at it as the nurse. Adeline then lay looking at them, as she panted for breath. Susanne wiped the cold dew from her pale forehead, and some tears from her own face. "Leave us alone, Susanne. I have something to say to Mademoiselle Carr." "Stay in the next room, within call, Susanne," whispered Miss Carr to the servant. It may seem strange, but dearly as Mary Carr loved Adeline, she experienced an indescribable awe at being left alone with her. She did not stay to analyze the sensation, but it must have had its rise in that nameless terror which, in the mind of the young, attaches itself to the presence of the dead and dying. "I am about to entrust you with a commission to _him_, Mary," she panted. "You will faithfully execute it?" "Faithfully and truly." And, stretching out her white and wasted hand, she held out the key of her writing-desk. "There is a secret spring in the desk, on the right, as you put in your hand," she continued; "press it." With some awkwardness, Mary Carr did as she was desired, and several love-tokens were disclosed to view. Two or three trinkets of value, a few dried flowers, and some letters, the edges much worn. "Throw the flowers in the fire," murmured Adeline, "and put all the rest in a parcel, and seal it up." "How the notes are worn, Adeline!" exclaimed Mary. "One would think them twenty years old." "Yes," she said, "until I took to my bed I carried them _here_," touching her bosom. "They are his letters." Miss Carr speedily made up the packet, and was about to seal it. "Not that seal," said Adeline. "Take my own; the small one, that has my initials on it. Mary, do you think I could direct it?" "_You_ direct it!" exclaimed Miss Carr, in surprise. "I don't see how." "If you could raise me up--and hold me--it would not take more than a minute. I wish to write the address myself." "Let me call Susanne." "No, no, I will have no one else here. Put the letter before me on a book, and try and raise me." It was accomplished after some trouble, Mary Carr was nervous, and feared, besides, that the raising her up might do some injury: but she knew not how to resist Adeline's beseeching looks. She supported her up in bed, and held her, whilst she wrote his name, "Frederick St. John." No "Mr.," no "Esquire;" and written in a straggling hand, all shakes and angles, bearing not any resemblance to what Adeline's had been. Mary laid her down again, and Adeline, in a few words, explained the secret of their being parted, and charged her to enlighten him. "Tell him I have returned all except the ring, and that will be buried with me. That it has never been off my finger since he placed it there."