“Ah, well,” she shuddered, “it is all over now. He died repentant in my arms, begging me to forgive him with his last breath. “Tomorrow I marry Mr. Graves, the attorney who defended me, and God grant that I may be happy. I shall try to deserve it.” “Amen,” said I. TALE FOURTEEN. MY LOVER’S DAUGHTER. “He That kills himself to avoid misery, fears it; And at the best shows but a bastard valor.” Dear Stella:—How strange that you should write me; do you know, girlie, that it has been almost five years since we have had any correspondence? It was only yesterday that I got out all of your old letters and re-read them, then put them away with the forlorn hope that I might sometime hear from you again. The last letter that I had from you told me of your engagement to Alfred, and cruel, heartless creature that I was, I did not even answer. I wrote you once since then, that was after my trouble. I did not tell you what it was, but told you that I would if you felt interested. You did not answer my letter and I, of course, took it for granted that you did not wish to be burdened with the knowledge of my misfortune, so never wrote you again. And now, bless your dear heart, you have written after so long, and in just the same sweet way as of old, even though you have so recently undergone such a great bereavement. You are a widow. How strange! And I am still unmarried, and have taken a vow to remain so always. Oh, how I long to visit you and go over all the old, happy days which we lived together. You ask me to tell you all that has happened to me. Well, nothing has occurred to change the humdrum existence of my life since I came here to live. I have worked every working day but five during my residence here. You well remember when I went to California to spend the winter. It was the winter I was twenty, and I think you know that when we parted, with the vow that we would write each other all our joys and sorrows, that I left heart whole. I have not kept my word in full, but will now endeavor to cover all important points. I arrived in San Francisco on schedule time, and was so delighted with the climate, the fragrant flowers and singing birds that I do not wonder that I was ready to admire the first man whose conduct and appearance was on par with the beauties of nature that abounded everywhere. Still I knew better than to fall in love, for I was given to understand by mamma that I was to marry Harry Caruthers. I fairly hated him, and besides he was papa’s nephew, and I always had a horror of blood relations intermarrying. Mamma said that did not matter, and Harry would be a very wealthy man some day. And you remember mamma, too. She was one of those sweet, dignified, haughty women who needed nothing but her own opinion to conclude an argument, and this with all due respect.