"Except the last--some months ago--in which she spoke of you, and what you then knew, and what I was to learn to-night." He looked towards the sun, then fast declining, and said that the appointed time was sunset. "Alfred!" said Grace, laying her hand upon his shoulder earnestly, "there is something in this letter--this old letter, which you say I read so often--that I have never told you. But to-night, dear husband, with that sunset drawing near, and all our life seeming to soften and become hushed with the departing day, I cannot keep it secret." "What is it, love?" "When Marion went away, she wrote me, here, that you had once left her a sacred trust to me, and that now she left you, Alfred, such a trust in my hands: praying and beseeching me, as I loved her, and as I loved you, not to reject the affection she believed (she knew, she said) you would transfer to me when the new wound was healed, but to encourage and return it." "--And make me a proud, and happy man again, Grace. Did she say so?" "She meant, to make myself so blest and honored in your love," was his wife's answer, as he held her in his arms. "Hear me, my dear!" he said.--"No. Hear me so!"--and as he spoke, he gently laid the head she had raised, again upon his shoulder. "I know why I have never heard this passage in the letter, until now. I know why no trace of it ever shewed itself in any word or look of yours at that time. I know why Grace, although so true a friend to me, was hard to win to be my wife. And knowing it, my own! I know the priceless value of the heart I gird within my arms, and thank GOD for the rich possession!" She wept, but not for sorrow, as he pressed her to his heart. After a brief space, he looked down at the child, who was sitting at their feet, playing with a little basket of flowers, and bade her look how golden and how red the sun was. "Alfred," said Grace, raising her head quickly at these words. "The sun is going down. You have not forgotten what I am to know before it sets." "You are to know the truth of Marion's history, my love," he answered. "All the truth," she said, imploringly. "Nothing veiled from me, any more. That was the promise. Was it not?" "It was," he answered. "Before the sun went down on Marion's birth-day. And you see it, Alfred? It is sinking fast." He put his arm about her waist; and, looking steadily into her eyes, rejoined, "That truth is not reserved so long for me to tell, dear Grace. It is to come from other lips." "From other lips!" she faintly echoed. "Yes. I know your constant heart, I know how brave you are, I know that to you a word of preparation is enough. You have said, truly, that the time is come. It is. Tell me that you have present fortitude to bear a trial--a surprise--a shock: and the messenger is waiting at the gate." "What messenger?" she said. "And what intelligence does he bring?"