me," was the next entry.

But now as he read his eyes were fixed, and the delicate feminine
handwriting like a black thread drew on his soul to one terrible
conclusion.

"I cannot live. Richard despises me. I cannot bear the touch of my
fingers or the sight of my face. Oh! I understand him now. He should not
have kissed me so that last time. I wished to die while his mouth was on
mine."

Further: "I have no escape. Richard said he would die rather than endure
it. I know he would. Why should I be afraid to do what he would do? I
think if my husband whipped me I could bear it better. He is so kind,
and tries to make me cheerful. He will soon be very unhappy. I pray
to God half the night. I seem to be losing sight of my God the more I
pray."

Richard laid the book open on the table. Phantom surges seemed to be
mounting and travelling for his brain. Had Clare taken his wild words in
earnest? Did she lie there dead--he shrouded the thought.

He wrapped the thoughts in shrouds, but he was again reading.

"A quarter to one o'clock. I shall not be alive this time to-morrow. I
shall never see Richard now. I dreamed last night we were in the fields
together, and he walked with his arm round my waist. We were children,
but I thought we were married, and I showed him I wore his ring, and he
said--if you always wear it, Clare, you are as good as my wife. Then I
made a vow to wear it for ever and ever... It is not mama's fault. She
does not think as Richard and I do of these things. He is not a coward,
nor am I. He hates cowards.

"I have written to his father to make him happy. Perhaps when I am dead
he will hear what I say.

"I heard just now Richard call distinctly--Clare, come out to me. Surely
he has not gone. I am going I know not where. I cannot think. I am very
cold."

The words were written larger, and staggered towards the close, as if
her hand had lost mastery over the pen.

"I can only remember Richard now a boy. A little boy and a big boy. I am
not sure now of his voice. I can only remember certain words. 'Clari,'
and 'Don Ricardo,' and his laugh. He used to be full of fun. Once we
laughed all day together tumbling in the hay. Then he had a friend, and
began to write poetry, and be proud. If I had married a young man he
would have forgiven me, but I should not have been happier. I must have
died. God never looks on me.

"It is past two o'clock. The sheep are bleating outside. It must be very
cold in the g