which she wrote on leaving Leghorn. He tore it from its
cover,--then gave it, opened, to Ernest.

"You must read it for me,--I cannot!" and he hurried into an inner room.

Ernest held the letter helplessly and looked round. For him there was
a double desolation in the room. The books stood untouched upon the
shelves; his mother's work-basket was laid aside. Suddenly there came
back to him the memory of that last day at home,--the joyous spring-day
in March,--which was so full of gay sounds. The clatter of the dropping
ice, the happy laugh of the water breaking into freedom, the song of the
canary, now hushed by the presence of strangers,--the thoughts of these
made gay even that moment of parting. And with them came the image of
the dear mother and of the warm-hearted Violet. Oh, the parting was
happier than the return! Now there was silence in the room, and
absence,--such unuse about all things,--such a terrible stillness! He
longed for a voice, for a sound, for words.

In his hands were words, her own, her last words. Half unconsciously he
read through the letter, as if unwillingly too, because it might not
belong to him. Yet they were her words, and for him.

"DEAR HARRY,--

"Do you know that I love him?--that I love Ernest? I ought to have known
it, just because I did not know how to confess it to myself or you. I
thought he was above us both; and when I pitied myself that he could not
love me, I pitied you, and my pity, perhaps, I mistook for love of you.
Perhaps I mistook it, for I know not but I was conscious all the time of
loving him. I learned the truth when I stood by the side of his Psyche,
and saw, that, though she hovered from the marble, though he had won
fame and success, he was unsatisfied still. It is true, he must always
remain unsatisfied, because it is his genius that thirsts, and it is my
ideal that he loves, not me. But he is dying; he asks for me. You never
could refuse him what he asked. You will give me to him? If you were not
so generous and noble-hearted, I could not ask you both for your pardon
and your pity. But you are both, and will do with me as you will.

"Your

"VIOLET."

As Ernest finished reading, as he was fully comprehending the meaning of
the words which at first had struck him idly, Harry opened the door and
came in. Ernest could not look up at first. He thought, perhaps, he was
about to darken the sorrow already heavy enough upon his brother.

But when Harry spoke and