s. The sweetness of the wasted cheeks and soft, parted lips suddenly
smote on the apathy, and tears came. She pressed her hands over her
eyes, struggled, and mastered herself again. Her own pathos must not
unnerve, and her unbearable sorrow must nerve, her.

She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Just three. She could give
herself ample time for writing the letter; then she must go and post it.
Before five she would be back here--locked in her room. Before six--

She went to the writing-table, unlocked a drawer,--the key hung on a
ribbon around her neck, under her bodice,--and took out a thick packet
of closely written papers. Sitting there, hesitating a moment, she
wondered if she would look back at those records of hope and
suffering--more than a whole year of beautiful suffering, beautiful
hope. The rising of tears again warned her that such a retrospect would
make her more unfit for writing the last letter as it must be
written--with full possession of her best and deepest meaning. She must
be her most courageous self to write now. The writer of those past
records seemed a little sister half playing with her grief, beside the
self that sat here now, stricken and determined.

Drawing pen and paper to her, she wrote:

MY DEAREST--MY BEST BELOVED: This is the last of the letters. I
am going to send them all to you now, so that you may know all.
I read this morning in the paper that you were to be married.
And now there is nothing left for me but to die. When you read
this I shall be dead.

You must not blame me, or think me too cowardly. I am a fragile
person, I know, and my life hung on you. Without hope it can't
go on; it's too feeble to find anything else to live for. And
you could never, never blame yourself. How could you have
helped it? How could you have dreamed that I loved you? If you
had you could have done nothing but be sorry--and irked. But it
comforts me in dying to let you know how I have loved you; it
is like a dying gift I make you,--do you see?--all the love
that I have hidden. If I had lived I could never have made the
gift. Had you guessed, or had I told you, it would have been a
burden, a ludicrous burden. But as you read this, knowing that
I am dead, my love must come to you as a blessing; you must
feel it as something, in its little way beautiful, and care for
it; for any love that only gives