"DEAR MARY,--So you have left us. I thought you would. I fear the Society has gone to the dogs, so I will have to look out for some other field for my energies. Did the doctor give you my message? I asked him to tell you that I would never forget my little sister nurse. You don't trouble much about me, but see how considerate I am for you. Three weeks ago I saw the enclosed extract in a suburban paper. I did not send it to you then, fearing that it might give you a shock in your feeble state of health--little as you loved your father. But now I hear from Dr. Duncan that you are very much better, so I forward it to you. The doctor tells me that he will be with you this evening, so you will have someone by to help you bear up under your affliction. Accept my condolence for your loss, also my congratulation on your coming happiness--for I have eyes in my head, Mary, and I can guess that you will soon be married. I suppose what has happened will put off the happy day though. I suppose you'll have a baby or babies. How funny that _one of us_ should go in for that sort of thing! I promise you that I'll take a great interest in your life, dear. _I'll stand as fairy god-mother to your baby._ Good-bye, dear. Yours ever, "SUSAN." "_P.S._ Did Dr. Duncan tell you that I have married my cousin? Sha'n't I make a capital wife?" The cutting from the newspaper which was enclosed in the letter was an announcement of her father's death. Mary read the letter slowly, and each line seemed a separate sting, as doubtlessly it was intended to be. Little as she loved her father, she was shocked to hear that he was dead. She had intended to go to him as soon as she was married, and implore his forgiveness. She had looked forward to the reconciliation with him, for all her hate had died away long since. She was troubled, too, by the vague threats the letter contained, couched though they were in terms of affectionate solicitude. She felt a great terror when she read the underlined promise of the woman who hated her, to stand as fairy god-mother to her child. She could not shake away the fear that the shadow, far away though it was now, would once again rise up from the horizon to cloud her happiness; but she stifled these fancies with a great effort, and said, "Oh, Harry! my poor father is dead." There were no exaggerated protestations of sympathy where little grief was felt, but the event cast a chill over the party. This letter had come at so inopportune a moment, that it could not but raise forebodings. Even the doctor felt a vague dread, and Mrs. White was quite upset by what she considered a very bad omen indeed. No one had spoken for some time, Mary had been holding the letter in her hand thinking; at last she said, "Harry, I cannot tell whether I ought to show you this letter. Will you be angry if I don't. There is something about the secret in it."