his writing-table, his

ter to Helen; beside them her pencil note which had

face bore traces of the anguish of s

uffers with a sharpness of cold misery unknown to the brave

tter to Helen, Aubrey read again

ie, m

Nurse has propped me up in bed,

l, only rather weak,

h I shall not, of course, yet send the letter. In fact, I daresay I shall keep

e, in your empty place, as I write, lies

three d

sea-shells. But he is going to have your artistic hands. When I cuddle them against my neck, the awful longing and loneliness of th

k is so important; and I have not told you since, because you must not have anything to worry you while so far a

was wi

e papers, for fear you should see it

eeks old, when you get back.

this tiny writing. Nurse would

like yours. I kiss it, but it doesn't kiss ba

to your more than

EL

tears, but only because I am

came a short postscript,

times feel as if I had done something wrong! Tell me, directly you take me in your arms,

in paper, opened a drawer, pushed the le

turned to his own lett

wn Be

t I would have been worthy. You sent me into outer darkness, where there was wailing and gnashing of teeth; where the worm of remorse dies-never. But, thro

yourself away, six months after you had cast me adrift. At this moment he

a letter of yours long ago, in which you said he was like a young sun-god. Handsome he is, I admit. He says he has never felt fitter in his life, and he looks it. But surely a woman wants more than mere vitality and vigour and outward beauty of appearance? Heart-he has n

ed you over and over again. He

; and when a woman loves

ript, he will leave you again, and again, and yet again. He married you for your money; he has practically a

leave him. He is not what she believed him to be; that fact sets her free. If you had found out, afterwards, that he was already married to a

disposal. I can sleep elsewhere; and I swear to you I will never stay one moment after you have bid me go. As soon as West has set you legally free,

e returns. But even if you decide to await his return, it will not be

not about his cursèd 'cello, rath

to the man who won you first and to whom you have always belonged; come

l death--

Y TREH