r, and tenderness swelling up afresh.
We always feel so tender over those that are in trouble.

"Yes, I will do it," muttered Agatha. And she wrote firmly the
words--"_My dear husband_" They seemed at the same time to imprint
themselves on her heart as a truth--invisible sometimes, yet when
brought near to the fire of strong emotion or suffering, found
ineffaceably written there.

The letter was a mere brief explanation and summons; but it bore the
words, duty-words certainly--yet which no duty would have forced Agatha
to write had they been untrue--"_My dear husband_"--"_Your affectionate
wife._"

She despatched it, and re-entered the sick-room. All was quiet
there--the very hopelessness of the case produced quiet. There was
nothing to be done, watched, or waited for. Doctor Mason sat by his
patient, as he had declared his intention of doing through the night.
He sat mournfully, for he was a kind, good man--the family doctor for
thirty years.

"Let all go to bed," he said to Agatha, seeming to understand at once
that she was the moving spirit in the family. "Make the house perfectly
quiet, and then"--

"I will come and sit up with you."

Doctor Mason looked compassionately at the slight girlish figure, and
the face already wan with the re-action after excitement. "My dear Mrs.
Harper, would not a servant do as well?"

"No, I am his son's wife. What should I say to my husband if--if
anything happened, and he not there, nor I?"

"Good. Then stay," said the doctor, kindly grasping her hand. He was a
man of few words.

It took some time and patience to quiet the house, and persuade Mary and
Eulalie to retire. When all was done, and Agatha passed swiftly, lamp in
hand, through the dark, solitary rooms, she felt frightened. The house
seemed so silent--already so full of death.

There was one thing more to be done--to write a line ready for Anne
Valery's waking, otherwise she would expect her home, as she had
promised, in the early morning. How would she tell all these horrors,
even in the gentlest way, to the feeble Anne, for whom, however
unknown to others, and disguised by the invalid herself, Agatha felt an
ever-present dread that she in vain tried to believe was only born of
strong attachment. We never deeply love anything for which we do not
likewise continually fear. Agatha almost recoiled from the idea of
mentioning danger or death to Anne Valery.

She went into the dining-room to write. Everything ther