* * * * *

[Sidenote: Miriam's Prayer]

Though long unused to prayer, Miriam prayed that night, very earnestly,
that Ambrose North might not recover his sight; that he might never see
the daughter who lived and spoke in the likeness of her dead mother. It
was long past midnight when she fell asleep. The house had been quiet
for several hours.

As she slept, she dreamed. The door opened quietly, yet with a certain
authority, and Constance, in her grave-clothes, came into her room. The
white gown trailed behind her as she walked, and the two golden braids,
so like Barbara's, hung down over either shoulder and far below her
waist.

She fixed her deep, sad eyes upon Miriam, reproachfully, as always, but
her red lips were curled in a mocking smile. "Do your worst," she seemed
to say. "You cannot harm me now."

[Sidenote: The Vision]

The vision sat down in a low chair and rocked back and forth, slowly, as
though meditating. Occasionally, she looked at Miriam doubtfully, but
the mocking smile was still there. At last Constance rose, having come,
apparently, to some definite plan. She went to the dresser, opened the
lower drawer, and reached under the pile of neatly-folded clothing.

Cold as ice, Miriam sprang to her feet. She was wide awake now, but the
room was empty. The door was open, half-way, and she could not remember
whether she had left it so when she went to bed. She had always kept her
bedroom door closed and locked, but since Barbara's illness had left it
at least ajar, that she might be able to hear a call in the night.

Shaken like an aspen in a storm, Miriam lighted her candle and stared
into the shadows. Nothing was there. The clock ticked steadily--almost
maddeningly. It was just four o'clock.

She, too, opened the lower drawer of the dresser and thrust her hand
under the clothing. The letters were still there. She drew them out, her
hands trembling, and read the superscriptions with difficulty, for the
words danced, and made themselves almost illegible.

Constance was coming back for the letters, then? That was out of
Miriam's power to prevent, but she would keep the knowledge of their
contents--at least of one. She thrust aside contemptuously the letter to
Barbara--she cared nothing for that.

[Sidenote: The Seal Broken]

Taking the one addressed to "Mr. Laurence Austin; Kindness of Miss
Leonard," she went back to bed, taking her candle to the small table
that stood