girl.'

She smiled at him, while the tears slipped down her cheeks. She
cherished his cold hands, holding them close in her warm, soft palms.

He seemed to be trying to speak. Then suddenly he disengaged himself,
rose feebly, went to the mantelpiece, lit another candle, and brought
it, holding it towards something on a chair--beckoning to her. She
went to him--perceived the unframed portrait--and cried out.

'Phoebe sent it me--just now,' he said, almost in a whisper--'without
a word--without a single word. It was left here by a boy--with no
letter--no address. Wasn't it cruel?--wasn't it horribly cruel?'

She watched him in dismay.

'Are you sure there was nothing--no letter?'

He shook his head. She released herself, took up the picture, and
examined it. Then she shook out the folds of the shawl, the fragments
of the brown paper, and still found nothing. But as she took the
candle and stooped with it to the floor, something white gleamed.
A neatly folded slip of paper had dropped among some torn letters
beneath the table. She held it up to him with a cry of delight.

He made a movement, then fell back.

'Read it, please,' he said, hoarsely, refusing it. 'There's something
wrong with my eyes.'

And he held his hands pressed to them, while she--little reluctantly,
wistfully--opened and read:

* * * * *

MY DEAR JOHN,--I have Phoebe safe. She can't write. But she sends you
this--as her sign. It's been with her all through. She knows she's
been a sinful wife. But there, it's no use writing. Besides, it makes
me cry. But come!--come soon! Your child is an angel. You'll forget
and forgive when you see her.

[Illustration: '_Be my messenger_']

I brought Phoebe here last week. Do you see the address?--it's the old
cottage! I took it with a friend--three years ago. It seemed the right
place for your poor wife--till she could make up her mind how and when
to let you know.

As to how _I_ came to know--we'll tell you all that.

Carrie knows nothing yet. I keep thinking of the first look in her
eyes! Come soon!

Ever your affectionate old friend,

ANNA MASON.

There was silence. Eugenie had read the letter in a soft voice that
trembled. She looked up. Fenwick was staring straight before him, and
she saw him shudder.

'I know it's horrible,' he said, in a low voice--'and cowardly--but I
feel as if I couldn't face it--I couldn't bear it.'

And he began feebly to pace to and