a mist--those friendly crutches which had served her so well
and were now out of her reach. But Barbara had no time for self-pity.
The dominant need of the hour was pressing heavily upon her.

With icy, shaking fingers, Barbara rang her bell. Presently Miriam came
in, attired in a flannel dressing-gown which was hopelessly unbecoming.
Barbara was moved to hysterical laughter, but she bit her lips.

"Aunt Miriam," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "father has a
letter of mine in his coat pocket which I should like to read again
to-night. Will you bring me his coat, please?"

Miriam turned away without a word. Her face was inscrutable.

"Don't wake him," called Barbara, in a shrill whisper. "If he is not
asleep, wait until he is. I would not have him wakened, but I must have
the coat to-night."

From his closed door came the sound of deep, regular breathing. Miriam
turned the knob noiselessly, opened the door, and slipped in. When her
eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she found the coat easily. It
had not taken long. Even Barbara might well be surprised at her
quickness.

Perhaps the letter was not in his coat--it might be somewhere else. At
any rate, it would do no harm to make sure before going in to Barbara.
Miriam went into her own room and calmly lighted a candle.

[Sidenote: The Letter Recovered]

Yes, the letter was there--two sheets: one in ink, in Constance's hand,
the other, in pencil, written by Barbara. Why should Barbara write to
one who was blind?

With her curiosity now thoroughly aroused, Miriam hastily read both
letters, then put them back. Her lips were curled in a sneer when she
took the coat into Barbara's room and gave it to her without speaking.

The girl thrust an eager hand into the inner pocket and, with almost a
sob of relief, took out her mother's letter and her own version of it.

"Thank you, Aunty," breathed Barbara. "I am sorry--to--to--disturb you,
but there was no--other way."

[Sidenote: The Letter Destroyed]

Miriam went out, as quietly as she had come, carrying the coat and
leaving Barbara's door ajar. When she was certain that she was alone,
Barbara tore the letter into shreds. So much, at least, was sure. Her
father should never see them, whatever he might think of her.

Miriam was standing outside the blind man's door. She fancied she heard
him stir. It did not matter--there was plenty of time before morning to
return the coat. She took it back into her o