at the strain was becoming almost unbearable. The
moment they were gone she turned to her friend.

"I must write a short letter before going to bed, Grace dear. Now go to
him at once;" then impulsively she threw her arms around her. "I shall
pray it is not true," she murmured, then turned and ran quickly to her
room.

Mrs. Truscott closed and bolted the front door, turned out the parlor
lights, and stepped quickly to the library; then she paused a moment
before turning the knob: her heart was beating heavily, her hands
trembling. She strove hard to control the weakness which had seized
her, and, for support, rested her head upon the casement and took two or
three long breaths; then with a murmured prayer for strength she gently
opened the door, and the soft swish of her trailing skirts announced her
presence.

His back was towards her as she entered; he was seated in a low-backed
library-chair, with both elbows upon the writing-table before him, and
resting his head upon the left hand in an attitude that was habitual
with him when seated there thinking. Before him, opened, lay a long
letter,--the adjutant's letter from Hays. A pen was in his hand, but not
a scratch had he made on the virgin surface of the paper. Truscott never
so much as wrote the date until he had fully made up his mind what the
entire letter should be, and he had far from made up his mind what to
say in this.

Without a word Mrs. Truscott stole quietly up behind him. He had been
expecting her any moment; he knew well she would come the instant her
visitors left her free; he was listening, waiting for her step, and had
heard Miss Sanford trip lightly up-stairs. Then came the soft, quick
pitapat of her tiny feet along the hall and the _frou-frou_ of the
skirts,--never yet could he hear it without a little thrill of
passionate delight. He half turned in readiness to welcome her, his
love, his wife; then came her pause at the door,--a new, an unknown
hesitancy, for from the first he had taught her that she alone could
never be unwelcome, undesired, no matter what his occupation in the
sanctum, and Jack's heart stood still while hers was throbbing heavily.
Could she have heard? Could she have suspected? _Must_ he tell her
to-night? He turned again to the desk as she entered, and waited
for--something he loved more than he could ever tell,--her own greeting.

Often when he was reading or writing during the day, and she, on
household cares intent, was