y side, or, if it could, it would have drawn me up to his."

"My love, my love," said Mr. Fraser, in a scared voice, "it is not
God's will that the dead should come back to us thus----"

"My poor Angela, why will you not believe me? This is so very painful,
do you suppose that I want to torture you by saying what is not true
about your love? The idea is absurd. I had meant to keep it till you
were calmer; but I have a letter for you. Read it and convince
yourself."

Angela almost snatched the paper from her outstretched hand. It ran
thus, in characters almost illegible from weakness:--

"Dearest,--Good-bye. I am dying of fever. Lady Bellamy will take
back your ring when it is over. Try to forget me, and be happy.
Too weak to write more. Good-bye. God----"

At the foot of this broken and almost illegible letter was scrawled
the word, "ARTHUR."

Angela read it slowly, and then at length the poison did its work. She
did not speak wildly any more, or call upon Arthur; she was stung back
to sense, but all the light went out of her eyes.

"It is his writing," she said, slowly. "I beg your pardon. It was good
of you to nurse him."

Then, pressing the paper to her bosom with one hand, with the other
she groped her way towards the door.

"It is very dark," she said.

Lady Bellamy's eyes gave a flash of triumph, and then she stood
watching the pitiable exhibition of human misery as curiously as ever
a Roman matron did an expiring gladiator. When Angela was near the
door, the letter still pressed against her heart, she spoke again.

"The blow comes from God, Angela, and the religion and spiritual
theories which you believe in will bring you consolation. Most likely
it is a blessing in disguise--a thing that you will in time even learn
to be thankful for."

Lady Bellamy had overacted her part. The words did not ring true, they
jarred upon Mr. Fraser; much more did they jar upon Angela's torn
nerves. Her pale cheek flushed, and she turned and spoke, but there
was no anger in her face, nothing but sorrow that dignified, and
unfathomable love lost in its own depths. Only the eyes seemed as
sightless as those of one walking in her sleep.

"When your hour of dreadful trouble comes, as it will come, pray God
that there may be none to mock you as you mock me." And she turned
like a stricken thing, and went slowly out, blindly groping her way
along.

Her last words had hit the victor hard. Who can say what hidden