arly hours
of my ministrations. This you have already seen in my account of their
parting. Whatever his dread, fear or remorse, there was no evidence
that she felt toward him anything but love and confidence: but love and
confidence from her to him were in direct contradiction to the doubts
I had believed her to have expressed in the half-written note handed to
Mrs. Fairbrother in the alcove. Had I been wrong, then, in attributing
this scrawl to her? It began to look so. Though forbidden to allow
her to speak on the one tabooed subject, I had wit enough to know that
nothing would keep her from it, if the fate of Mrs. Fairbrother occupied
any real place in her thoughts.

Yet when the opportunity was given me one morning of settling this fact
beyond all doubt, I own that my main feeling was one of dread. I feared
to see this article in my creed destroyed, lest I should lose confidence
in the whole. Yet conscience bade me face the matter boldly, for had I
not boasted to myself that my one desire was the truth?

I allude to the disposition which Miss Grey showed on the morning of
the third day to do a little surreptitious writing. You remember that
a specimen of her handwriting had been asked for by the inspector, and
once had been earnestly desired by myself. Now I seemed likely to have
it, if I did not open my eyes too widely to the meaning of her seemingly
chance requests. A little pencil dangled at the end of my watch-chain.
Would I let her see it, let her hold it in her hand for a minute? it was
so like one she used to have. Of course I took it off, of course I let
her retain it a little while in her hand. But the pencil was not enough.
A few minutes later she asked for a book to look at--I sometimes let her
look at pictures. But the book bothered her--she would look at it later;
would I give her something to mark the place--that postal over there.
I gave her the postal. She put it in the book and I, who understood her
thoroughly, wondered what excuse she would now find for sending me into
the other room. She found one very soon, and with a heavily-beating
heart I left her with that pencil and postal. A soft laugh from her lips
drew me back. She was holding up the postal.

"See! I have written a line to him! Oh, you good, good nurse, to let me!
You needn't look so alarmed. It hasn't hurt me one bit."

I knew that it had not; knew that such an exertion was likely to be more
beneficial than hurtful to her, or I should