candle to be placed on the small table at the head of her bed. She also
sent away the book and pencil and the paper she had not used. Miriam's
curiosity was faintly aroused, but, as she told herself, she could wait.
She had already waited long.

"Daddy," said, Barbara, softly, when they were alone, "do you know what
day it is?"

"No," he answered; "why?"

"It's my birthday--I'm twenty-two to-day."

"Are you? Your dear mother was twenty-two when she--I wish you were like
your mother, Barbara."

"Mother left a letter with Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, gently. "She
gave it to me to-day."

The old man sprang to his feet. "A letter!" he cried, reaching out a
trembling hand. "For me?"

[Sidenote: Barbara Reads to her Father]

Barbara laughed--a little sadly. "No, Daddy--for me. But there is
something for you in it. Sit down, and I'll read it to you."

"Read it all," he cried. "Read every word."

"Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," read the girl, her voice
shaking, "if you live to read this letter, your mother will have been
dead for many years, and possibly forgotten."

"No," breathed Ambrose North--"never forgotten."

"I have chosen your twenty-second birthday for this, because I am
twenty-two now, and when you are the same age, it will be as if we were
sisters, rather than mother and daughter."

"Dear Constance," whispered the old man.

"When I came from school, I met your father. He was a brilliant man,
handsome, courteous, distinguished, of fine character and unassailable
position."

Barbara glanced up quickly. The dull red had crept into his wrinkled
cheeks, but his lips were parted in a smile.

"There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. He has
failed at no point, nor in the smallest degree. I have disappointed
him, I fear, even though I love him dearly and always have. I have never
loved him more than I do to-day, when I leave you both forever.

"Tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good to
me, that I appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the
beautiful love he has given me. Tell him I am sorry I have failed
him----"

"Oh, dear God!" he cried. "_She_ fail?"

"That I have not been a better wife," Barbara went on, brokenly. "Tell
him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him
more than I do to-day.

"Forgive me, both of you, and love me if you can. Your Mother."

In the tense silence, Barbara folded up