"Mr. Winship, your daughter wasn't so strong as she seemed. There was much in her condition to cause anxiety. I'll be back in an hour," he added, moving hastily, as Reid entered, toward the door. Could I let him shoulder the responsibility of concealment? And if I refused? Publicity--an inquest? At last I was alive to the situation; in silent gratitude I wrung Upton's hand, but he took no notice of me. As he passed Reid he growled:-- "Your wife's a good woman to tie to, Pros. She's all right. Lucky she was telegraphed for." Cadge had begun to talk in low tones to Mr. Winship. He did not seem to listen, but the quiet voice soothed him. Gradually his gray, set features relaxed, though he would not submit to be led from the bedside. "Ma was right," he said at last, broken and querulous. "We'd never ought to have let her come to the city. Ye say she'll be famous? Sissy, my poor little Poppet, w'at good to ye is fame; w'at good is all your studyin'?" * * * * * I did not open Helen's writing case for weeks; not until after my return from the dreary journey West with Mr. Winship. Stunned by the shock of her death, bearing not only my grief but the knowledge that her father and mother must hold me in part responsible for her fatal coming to New York, I could not face the secret of her choice of death rather than marriage with me. It was a hot July night when I turned the key that guarded the secret. I found the story of the Bacillus, the curse that killed Darmstetter, that killed Helen. With it was a letter that I have read a thousand times--this letter that I am now reading. The scent of roses still breathes from it. On the last page there are splashes of wine. This is what it says:-- JOHN: I cannot bear it. Prof. Darmstetter gave me death when he gave me beauty. I am not a coward; but what is left? I am tired, wretched; there is no place for me. The Bacillus has defeated every wish it has aroused. It has refused me love, ambition, honest work. From men it has compelled fear; from women hate; it has cut me off from my kind. You saw Ned smiling into Milly's pale eyes. I should not have cared, I who was to marry you, but--I love him; you know it--you have known it since my heart broke, since I tore it out and swore to reign, to dazzle, to be Queen of the world. You know what came of my ambitions. The world treated my beauty as a menace; it struck me down. Then I asked to earn my bread; but without you I might have starved. You were my refuge--and you--you love a cripple! Why didn't I guess? I would have been glad, for Ethel is a dear child, and I had given you sorrow enough. I did not love you; I do not think I have pretended to love you. But can no man help seeming to care for me--help caring while he is with me? Ned told me he did not love; but you, you I trusted; you would have married me, not letting me know--