s not half read, but from that moment the box and its contents
had rested upon his heart day and night--through scenes of blood and of
woe, through every conceivable phase of hardship and starvation and
peril--had rested there as a charm, or amulet, which should shield him
from harm. And as such, indeed, its donor had intended it.

And now his eyes, wandering over the paper, as though devouring every
word, are nearing the end:

"Does this come as a surprise, my darling--a very sweet surprise? [it
ran.] I mean it to be that. 'Is it for good or for ill, this love of
ours?' you have said. Surely for good. Keep, then, this image of me, my
beloved. Never part with it, day or night, and may it ever, by the very
strength of my love for you, be as a talisman--a 'charm'--to stand
between you and all peril, as you say the mental image of me has already
done; how, I cannot see, but it is enough for me that you say so. And
the consciousness that I should have been the means of averting evil
from you is sweet, unutterably so. May it continue, and strengthen me as
it will mysteriously shield you, while we are far apart. My Laurence! my
ideal!--yes, you are that; the very moment my eyes first met the firm
full gaze of yours I recognized it. I knew what you were, and my heart
went out to you."

The blood surged hotly, in a dark flush, beneath Laurence Stanninghame's
bronzed face, as he pictured the full force and passion of those parting
utterances murmured into his ear instead of confided only to cold,
inanimate paper; then the demon of cynicism ingrained within him came
uppermost with hateful and haunting suggestions:

"She is safe? Yes. But those words were penned more than two years ago.
More than two years ago! That is a long time for one in the full glow of
her glorious youth. More than two years ago! And in the joy and delight
of living, what charm has the memory--the daily fading memory--of the
absent for such as she? Think of it, oh, fool, not yet free from the
shackles of the last illusion! Think of circumstances, of surroundings,
of temperament, above all, of such a temperament as hers! Is your mature
knowledge of life to go for nothing that you are so easily fooled? Ha,
Ha!"

Thus laughed the demon voice in mocking gibe. But he--no, he would not
listen; he would stifle it. Those words were the outcome of one
love--the love of a lifetime, and nothing less.

Suddenly, with multifold splash, and a great winnowing of