sound slumber,
while Elizabeth, in her haggard anxiety, moved up and down, wounded by
cruel reflections which wrung her soul and left it dumb, with a passive
submission, born rather of desperation than endurance.

CHAPTER LVI.

THE SECRET TELEGRAM.

Elizabeth at last paused, and in her bitter anguish stood for minutes
regarding Elsie as she lay asleep upon the sofa. She approached and bent
over her. The girl had brushed her long fair curls back from her face,
and they fell over the cushions in rich luxuriance, a feverish color was
on her cheeks, lighting up her loveliness, and her whole appearance was
so pretty, so singularly childlike, as she lay there, that it seemed
impossible, even then, that she could have anything in common with the
trouble that oppressed Elizabeth.

Elizabeth stood for a long time regarding her, and many changes passed
over her face as she did so, but they all settled into a look of
determination, and she turned away. Whatever was to be borne she would
endure alone; she would keep her promise to the very letter. If ruin and
disgrace came they should fall on her alone. Why attempt to involve that
fair young creature in it?

She went to a cabinet in the corner of the room, opened a little drawer
and took out a package of letters. They were those her husband had
written to her during his long absence.

She drew an easy-chair near to the sofa and sat down, with her face
turned towards Elsie, opened one or two of the epistles and read
passages from them. One of the pages ran thus:

"Whatever may happen, no matter how long my absence may be protracted, I
know that you will take care of Elsie. If the worst should happen--if
death should surprise me in this far-off land, I know that you will
fulfil for me the promise I made my dying mother, and be a parent to
that desolate girl.

"Forgive me if I pain you by writing so sadly. I do not believe that any
misfortune will happen to me; something tells me that I shall reach home
in safety, and find love and happiness once more awaiting me there.

"But the charge I have in Elsie's future is always present to my mind. I
never can forget the words that my dying mother spoke; they are with me
night and day, and have been since the hour when they died on her pallid
lips.

"It rejoices my heart to think how different from most girls our little
Elsie is. If any harm were to reach her I think I should go mad;
disgrace to one whose blood was kindr