"I have fulfilled my promise in delivering the letter to you," the minister responded. "But if you ask my advice, I should certainly recommend you to read it. The writer was a good woman, a saintly woman; and whatever the message she has sent you from beyond the grave, as it were, I think it would be well for you to read it." The young wife took the envelope. "Very well," she answered, "since I must read it, I will." "I am conscious that this interview cannot but have been somewhat painful to you, Mrs. Blackstock," said the minister, moving toward the door. "Certainly the situation is strangely unconventional. But I trust you will forgive me for my share in the matter--" "Forgive you?" she rejoined, finding phrases with difficulty. "Oh yes--yes, I forgive you, of course." "Then I will bid you good afternoon," he returned. "Good afternoon," she answered, automatically. "I beg that you will give my regards to your husband." "To my husband?" she repeated. "Of course, of course." When Dr. Thurston had gone at last, the bride stood still in the center of the drawing-room with the envelope gripped in her hand. Taking a long breath, she tore it open with a single motion and took out the half-dozen sheets that were folded within it. She turned it about and shook it suspiciously, but nothing fell from it. This relieved her dread a little, for she feared that there might be some inclosure--something that she would be sorry to have seen. With the letter in her hand at last, she hesitated no longer; she unfolded it and began to read. The ink was already faded a little, for the date was nearly two years old. The handwriting was firm but girlishly old-fashioned; it was perfectly legible, however. This is what the bride read: "MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,--I must begin by begging your pardon for writing you this letter. I hope you will forgive it as the strange act of a foolish old woman who wants to tell you some of the things her heart is full of. "You do not know me--at least, I think it most likely you do not, although I cannot be sure of this, for you may be one of the girls I have seen growing up. And I do not know you for sure; but all the same I have been thinking of you very often in the past few weeks. I have thought about you so often that at last I have made up my mind to write you this letter. When I first had the idea, I did not want to, but now I have brooded over it so long that I simply must. "I have been wondering how you will take it, but I can't help that now. I have something to say, and I am going to say it. I have been wondering, too, what you will be like. I suppose that you are young, very young perhaps, for John has always been fond of young people. You are a good woman, I am sure, for John could never have anything to do with a woman who was not good. Young and good I feel sure you will be; and that is all I know about you.