its bosom a letter which he eagerly seized. As he
glanced at the direction of the envelope, his face underwent a
marvellous change; it was as if a mask had suddenly been removed,
revealing a new type of warmer, purer, and tenderer manhood.

The letter read as follows:

"DEAREST EDMUND:

It has gone all wrong with me. You know I would not come to if there
was any other hope left. As for myself, I do not care what becomes
of me, but you will not forsake my little girl. Will you dear
Edmund? I know you will not. I promise you, I shall never claim her
back. She shall be yours always. Her name is Ragna; she was born
February 25th, and was christened two months later. I have prayed to
God that she may bring happiness into your life, that she may
expiate the wrong her mother did you.

I was not married until five years after you left me. It is a great
sin to say it, but I always hoped that you would come back to me I
did not know then how great my wrong was. Now I know it and I have
ceased to hope. Do not try to find me. It will be useless. I shall
never willingly cross your path, dear Edmund. I have learned that
happiness never comes where I am; and I would not darken your life
again,--no I would not, so help me God! Only forgive me, if you can,
and do not say anything bad about me to my child--ah! what a
horrible thought! I did not mean to ask you that, because I know how
good you are. I am so wild with strange thoughts, so dazed and
bewildered that I do not know what I am saying. Farewell, dear
Edmund.--Your, EMILY.

If you should decide not to keep my little girl (as I do not think
you will), send a line addressed E.H.H., to the personal column in
the 'N.Y. Herald.' But do not try to find me. I shall answer you in
the same way and tell you where to send the child. E.H."

This letter was not shown to me until several years after, but even
then the half illegible words, evidently traced with a trembling hand,
the pathetic abruptness of the sentences, sounding like the
grief-stricken cries of a living voice, and the still visible marks
of tears upon the paper, made an impression upon me which is not
easily forgotten.

In the meanwhile Storm, having read and reread the letter, was lifting
his strangely illumined eyes to the ceiling.

"God be praised," he said in a trembling whisper. "I have wronged her,
too, and I did not know it. I will be a father to her child."