; a half-empty
workbox, and two or three gowns. Amongst these was a well-worn
black silk, lying almost at the bottom of the trunk; and
Madelon, taking it out, unfolded it with some satisfaction at
the thought of seeing it transformed into a garment for
herself. As she did so, she perceived that some things had
been left in the pocket. It had probably been the last gown
worn by Madame Linders, and after her death, in the hurry and
confusion that had attended the packing away of her things,
under Monsieur Linders' superintendence, it had been put away
with the rest without examination.

A cambric handkerchief was the first thing Madelon pulled out,
and, as she did so, a folded paper fluttered on to the ground.
She picked it up, and took it to the window to examine it. It
was the fragment of a half-burned letter, a half sheet of
foreign paper closely written in a small, clear hand; but only
a fragment, for there was neither beginning nor ending. It was
in English, but Madelon remembered enough of the language to
make out the meaning, and this was what she read in the fading
light.

It began abruptly thus:--

"... cannot come to me, and that I must not come to you, that it
would do no good, and that M. Linders would not like it. Well,
I must admit, I suppose, but if you could imagine, Magdalen,
how I long to see your face, to hear your voice again! It is
hard to be parted for so long, and I weary, oh, how I weary
for you sometimes. To think that you are unhappy, and that I
cannot comfort you; that you also sometimes wish for me, and
that I cannot come to you--all this seems at times very hard to
bear. I think sometimes that to die for those we love would be
too easy a thing; to suffer for them and with them--would not
that be better? And I do suffer with you in my heart--do you
not believe it? But of what good is it? it cannot remove one
pang or lighten your burthen for a single moment. This is
folly, you will say; well, perhaps it is; you know I like to
be sentimental sometimes, and I am in just such a mood to-
night. Is it folly too to say, that after all the years since
we parted, I still miss you? and yet so it is. Sometimes
sitting by the fire of an evening, or looking out at the
twilight garden, I seem to hear a voice and a step, and half
expect to see my pretty Maud--you tell me you are altered, but
I cannot realize it, and yet, of course, you must be; we are
both growing old women now--we two girls will neve