There, in the straight white dress she wore at the wedding, Helen lay, as if sleeping, upon a couch. Floods of shining hair fell about her shoulders. In the white dignity of death her face was marvellous. All trace of stress and strain had left it, replaced by an enigmatic calm. She looked not merely beautiful, but Beauty's self vouchsafed to mortal eyes. I do not know how long I gazed. Vaguely, between Kitty's sobs, I heard the ticking of a watch. "For another woman of such loveliness," at length said a reverent voice behind me, "we must wait the final evolution of humanity." Dr. Upton, one of Reid's friends whom I had seen at the wedding, had reached the house before me. He had been examining a glass, a spoon and some other objects so quietly that I had not heard. He said that Helen had been dead some hours. Mechanically I listened, but it was not until afterward that I understood the full purport of his speech or of Kitty's story of the night and morning. Their words reached me as if spoken from some great distance by the people who live in dreams. Kitty had come to us; she stood in the doorway, white and shaking. "Helen--Helen's head ached," she sobbed, "and she begged me to brush her hair, but when I began, she said it hurt, and told me to stop; then she fell to writing. I coaxed her to come to bed, for I thought she was ill; but she called me 'Kathryn' and then I knew I couldn't manage her. Oh, I was wicked, wicked; but I was afraid of her, always--you know. So I--oh, how could I?--I fixed a screen against the light and lay down, meaning to try again in a few minutes; but the instant my head touched the pillow I must have dropped asleep. The last thing I said was: 'Shall I tell Morphy you're coming?' I was so tired that I don't know whether she answered. And this morning--oh, I can't believe it; Oh, Helen, Helen!" "And this morning?" prompted Dr. Upton. "This morning when--when I waked and saw her on the couch, I wondered why she hadn't come to bed; but I dropped a shawl over her and tiptoed out. It wasn't until half-past eight that I tried--oh, I can't! I can't! Don't ask me!" Kitty's voice was lost in hysterical chokings. Dr. Upton handed me Helen's visiting card. Below the name was scrawled: "P. P. C." "It was found pinned to Miss Reid's bedspread," he said; "is that Miss Winship's handwriting?" "Yes," I answered. The shaky letters were unrecognisable. "Don't you see! To say farewell," wailed Kitty. "She's done it a hundred times when she started for school before I was up. Barnard is so far. Oh, I can't bear it! How could you, Helen?" "Don't, Kitty," said Cadge, drawing her from the room. The doctor motioned me to a table behind the screen of which Kitty had spoken. There Helen had sat, there lay her writing case, the key sealed in an envelope addressed to me. Picking up a slip of paper torn from a letter pad, he asked:-- "Is this also Miss Winship's writing?" He held it out to me and I read the single line:--