That rash answer offered Miss Dunross the opportunity of returning to the subject of Mrs. Van Brandt. She seized the opportunity with a woman's persistent resolution when she has her end in view, and is determined to reach it at all hazards. "You have not told your mother yet," she said, "that your infatuation for Mrs. Van Brandt is at an end. Will you put it in your own words? Or shall I write it for you, imitating your language as well as I can?" In the state of my mind at that moment, her perseverance conquered me. I thought to myself indolently, "If I say No, she will only return to the subject again, and she will end (after all I owe to her kindness) in making me say Yes." Before I could answer her she had realized my anticipations. She returned to the subject; and she made me say Yes. "What does your silence mean?" she said. "Do you ask me to help you, and do you refuse to accept the first suggestion I offer?" "Take up your pen," I rejoined. "It shall be as you wish." "Will you dictate the words?" "I will try." I tried; and this time I succeeded. With the image of Mrs. Van Brandt vividly present to my mind, I arranged the first words of the sentence which was to tell my mother that my "infatuation" was at an end! "You will be glad to hear," I began, "that time and change are doing their good work." Miss Dunross wrote the words, and paused in anticipation of the next sentence. The light faded and faded; the room grew darker and darker. I went on. "I hope I shall cause you no more anxiety, my dear mother, on the subject of Mrs. Van Brandt." In the deep silence I could hear the pen of my secretary traveling steadily over the paper while it wrote those words. "Have you written?" I asked, as the sound of the pen ceased. "I have written," she answered, in her customary quiet tones. I went on again with my letter. "The days pass now, and I seldom or never think of her; I hope I am resigned at last to the loss of Mrs. Van Brandt." As I reached the end of the sentence, I heard a faint cry from Miss Dunross. Looking instantly toward her, I could just see, in the deepening darkness, that her head had fallen on the back of the chair. My first impulse was, of course, to rise and go to her. I had barely got to my feet, when some indescribable dread paralyzed me on the instant. Supporting myself against the chimney-piece, I stood perfectly incapable of advancing a step. The effort to speak was the one effort that I could make. "Are you ill?" I asked. She was hardly able to answer me; speaking in a whisper, without raising her head. "I am frightened," she said. "What has frightened you?" I heard her shudder in the darkness. Instead of answering me, she whispered to herself: "What am I to say to him?" "Tell me what has frightened you?" I repeated. "You know you may trust me with the truth." She rallied her sinking strength. She answered in these strange words: