re was no pain at
all--only weakness. If the room were absolutely dark, perhaps he might
open his eyes for a moment or two. Why should to-morrow be so different
from to-day?

The letter was in his hands--that dear letter which said, "I have loved
him, I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day."
The temptation worked subtly in his mind as strong wine might in his
blood. Perhaps, after all, he could not see--the doctors had not given
him a positive promise.

The fear made him faint, then surging hope and infinite longing merged
into perfect belief--and trust. Unable to endure the strain of waiting
longer, he opened his eyes, and as swiftly closed them again.

"I can see," he whispered, shrilly. "Oh, I can see!"

The blood beat hard in his pulses. He waited, wisely, until he was calm,
then opened his eyes once more. The room was not dark, but was filled
with the soft, golden glow of sunset--a light that illumined and,
strangely, brought no pain. Objects long unfamiliar save by touch loomed
large and dark before him. Remembered colours came back, mellowed by the
half-light. Distances readjusted themselves and perspectives appeared in
the transparent mist that seemed to veil everything. He closed his eyes,
and said, aloud: "I can see! Oh, I can see!"

[Sidenote: Reading the Letter]

Little by little the mist disappeared and objects became clear. The
velvety softness of the last light lay kindly upon the dingy room. When
he tried to read the letter the words danced on the page. Trembling, he
rose and took it over to the window, where the light was stronger. As he
stood there, with his back to the door, Miriam, unheard, came into the
room.

The bandages on the floor, the eagerness in every line of his body as he
stood at the window, and the letter in his hand, gave her, in a single
instant, all the information she needed. Her heart beat high with wild
hope--the hour of her vengeance had come at last.

She feared he would not be able to read it. Then she remembered the
yellowed page on which the writing stood out as clearly as though it had
been large print. If he could see at all, he could see that.

Little by little, sustained and supported by his immeasurable longing,
the man at the window spelled out the words, in an eager whisper:

"You who have loved me since the beginning of time--will understand and
forgive me--for what I do to-day. I do it because I am not strong
enough--to go on--and