fever, and I have no recollection of
leaving the boat. When I came to myself, I was in a house near Boston,
belonging to the old gentleman I spoke of. He and his nieces nursed me,
and now I am as well as ever, only rather weak.

"Mr. Ironside, that is his name, but it should be Mr. Goldheart, if I
had the christening of him--he has been my good Samaritan. Dear Grace,
please pray for him and his family every night. He tells me he comes of
the pilgrim fathers, so he is bound to feel for pilgrims and wanderers
from home. Well, he has been in patents a little, and, before I lost
my little wits with the fever, he and I had many a talk. So now he is
sketching out a plan of operation for me, and I shall have to travel
many a hundred miles in this vast country. But they won't let me move
till I am a little stronger, he and his nieces. If he is gold, they are
pearls.

"Dearest, it has taken me two days to write this: but I am very happy
and hopeful, and do not regret coming. I am sure it was the right thing
for us both.

"Please say something kind for me to the good doctor, and tell him I
have got over this one trouble already.

"Dearest, I agreed to take so much a year from Bolt, and he must fight
the trades alone. Such a life is not worth having. Bayne won't wrong me
of a shilling. Whatever he makes, over his salary and the men's wages,
there it will be for me when I come home; so I write to no one at
Hillsborough but you. Indeed, you are my all in this world. I travel,
and fight, and work, and breathe, and live for you, my own beloved; and
if any harm came to you, I wouldn't care to live another moment."

At this point in the letter the reader stopped, and something cold
seemed to pass all through his frame. It struck him that all good men
would pity the writer of this letter, and abhor him who kept it from
that pale, heart-broken girl inside the cottage.

He sat freezing, with the letter in his hand, and began to doubt whether
he could wade any deeper in crime.

After a minute or two he raised his head, and was about to finish
reading the letter.

But, in the meantime, Grace Carden had resumed her accustomed place in
the veranda. She lay upon the couch, and her pale face, and hollow, but
still beautiful eyes, were turned seaward. Out of those great sad eyes
the sad soul looked across the waste of waters--gazed, and searched, and
pined in vain. Oh, it was a look to make angels weep, and hover close
over her head