d, and,
somehow, the conviction has been growing even in advance of his story,
that it is all true. This will explain Sybil's strange letter, and--that
letter! what does it contain? She turns and gazes, as if fascinated,
towards the west. There are no more golden gleams athwart the windows,
only a dull red flush upon the horizon. The sun, at last, has set.

At last! She turns, rises slowly and without once glancing toward him
begins to pace the length of the room, and he sees that the queenly Miss
Wardour is for once, unnerved, is struggling for composure.

Finally she speaks, still keeping up her slow promenade.

"Dr. Heath, I am bewildered. I am terrified! I--" She breaks
off suddenly, as if to modify her speech. "This can be no
common--elopement," she winces at the word. "Sybil is refined, honest
and true-hearted, and she loves--another. There must be something yet,
to be understood, and," with a sudden startled look in her eyes,
"perhaps this might have been prevented; perhaps _I_ might have
prevented it if--" another break; then, "Doctor, it is just possible
that I may find a clue to this strangeness. Will you pardon my absence
for a short time, and await me here? This is a strange request, but--"

"It's a day of strange things," he interrupts, kindly, seeing her
agitation. "Go, Miss Wardour; I am at your service this evening."

He crosses the room, seats himself at a table, and takes up a book; and
Constance stands irresolute for a moment, then, without a word, hurries
from the room.

Up the stairs she flies, hastily unlocks her dressing-room door, enters,
and, in a moment, with a courage born of a nervous determination to know
the worst at once, seizes the mysterious note and breaks the seal. A
moment's hesitation, and then the page is opened, and the lines, only a
few, dance before her eyes. She tries to steady her hand; she can not
read them fast enough.

_Constance, Dear Constance:_

When you read this, you may have become already aware of the fate I
have chosen for myself. I have no explanation to offer. Think of
Beauty and the Beast; think of Titania's strange choice; think me
mad. But oh, Constance, never censure me; never think that all the
happy days, when you have been my friend, I was not worthy that
friendship. And, Con., don't let _others_ say things too bitter
about me. Am I not dead to myself, and to you all? and for the
dead, have we not charity