o
them all, while Marian put into English and read, in a clear, distinct
voice, and without the least hesitation, that message from the dead.

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE LETTERS.

There were four of them--two in Arthur's handwriting: one directed to
Mrs. Arthur Tracy, Wiesbaden, postmarked Liverpool; one to Margaret
Heinrich, Wiesbaden, postmarked Shannondale; one in a strange
handwriting to Arthur Tracy, if living; and one to Arthur Tracy's
friends if he were dead, or incapable of understanding it. And it was
this last which Marian read; for as Arthur was living, she felt that
with his letters strangers had nothing to do. The letter to the friends,
which had evidently been written at intervals, as the writer's strength
would permit, was as follows:

'WIESBADEN, December ----, 18--,

'To the friends of Mr. Arthur Tracy, if he is dead, or incapable of
understanding this letter, from his wife, who was Marguerite
Heinrich, and whom he always called Gretchen.

'I want to tell you about it for the sake of my little Jerrie, whom,
if her father is dead, I give to your care, praying God to deal with
you as you are good and just to her. I was seventeen when I first
saw Mr. Tracy. My father was dead. I was an only child, and my
mother kept a little fancy shop in Wiesbaden. I went to school and
learned what other girls like me learned--to read and write, and
knit and sew, and fear God and keep His commandments. People called
me pretty. I don't know that I was, but he told me so when he came
to me one day as I was knitting under a tree in the park. He had a
picture made of me as I was then, and it is on the wall, but I have
pawned it for the rent, as I have almost everything.'

'Oh, Jerrie!' Marian exclaimed at this point.

But Jerrie's face was buried in Maude's pillow and she made no response.
So Marian read on:

'He came many times, for I was always there waiting for him, I am
afraid; but when he said he loved me, and wanted me for his wife I
could not believe it, he was so grand, so like nobility, and I so
poor and plain. Then mother died suddenly--oh, so suddenly--well
to-day--dead to-morrow--with cholera, and I was left alone.

'"Gretchen we must he married now," he said to me, the night after
the funeral; and I answered him, "yes, we must be married;" and we
were, the next day, in the little English Church, by Mr. Eaton, t