No letter arrived, only a narrow parcel, clumsily sealed, addressed to Miss Hor-neck in a strange handwriting. When she had broken the seals she gave a cry, for the packet contained sheet after sheet in Goldsmith's hand--poems addressed to her--the love-songs which his heart had been singing to her through the long hopeless years. She glanced at one, then at another, and another, with beating heart. She started up, crying-- “Ah! I knew it, I knew it! He loves me--he loves me as I love him--only his love is deep, while mine was shallow! Oh, my dear love--he loves me, and now he is dying! Ah! I know that he is dying, or he would not have sent me these; he would have sacrificed himself--nay, he has sacrificed himself for me--for me!” She threw herself on a sofa and buried her face in her hands. “My dear--dear sister,” said Katherine, “is it possible that you--you----” “That I loved him, do you ask?” cried Mary, raising her head. “Yes, I loved him--I love him still--I shall never love any one else, and I am going to him to tell him so. Ah! God will be good--God will be good. My love shall live until I go to him.” “My poor child!” said her sister. “I could never have guessed your secret. Come away. We will go to him together.” They left by the coach that day, and early the next morning they went together to Brick Court. A woman weeping met them at the foot of the stairs. They recognised Mrs. Abington. “Do not tell me that I am too late--for God's sake say that he still lives!” cried Mary. The actress took her handkerchief from her eyes. She did not speak. She did not even shake her head. She only looked at the girl, and the girl understood. She threw herself into her sister's arms. “He is dead!” she cried. “But, thank God, he did not die without knowing that one woman in the world loved him truly for his own sake.” “That surely is the best thought that a man can have, going into the Presence,” said Mrs. Abington. “Ah, my child, I am a wicked woman, but I know that while you live your fondest reflection will be that the thought of your love soothed the last hours of the truest man that ever lived. Ah, there was none like him--a man of such sweet simplicity that every word he spoke came from his heart. Let others talk about his works; you and I love the man, for we know that he was greater and not less than those works. And now he is in the presence of God, telling the Son who on earth was born of a woman that he had all a woman's love.” Mary put her arm about the neck of the actress, and kissed her. She went with her sister among the weeping men and women--he had been a friend to all--up the stairs and into the darkened room. She threw herself on her knees beside the bed. THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's The Jessamy Bride, by Frank Frankfort Moore