ame in your home now as if I had never come. I did
not say I was your wife--for you had not--and I would not tell them. I
want you to know this, so nothing will be changed by me. In London,
before I knew, when I thought you were there, when I did not understand,
I wrote my name in the hotel book, but in Queensderry something in my
heart stopped me and I only wrote my old name, Cassandra Merlin. I must
have been beginning to understand."

David paused and dashed the tears from his eyes. "Poor little heart!
Poor little heart!" he cried. He paced the room, then tried to read
again. The letters, blurred by his tears, seemed to dance about and run
together.

"Now I see it all clearly, David, and, after a little, God will help me
to live on the happiness you brought me in our sweet year together.
There was happiness for a lifetime in that year. Comfort your heart with
that thought when you think of me, and do not be too sad.

"Oh, David! I did not know that to save me from marrying Frale and
living a life worse than death you sacrificed yourself. But you did not
need to do it. After knowing you and after doing what he did to you, I
never could have married him. I only knew you came to me and saved me
from the terrible life I might have led, and I took you as from God. I
have seen the beautiful lady you should have married, and I don't know
what to do, nor how to give you back to yourself. I suppose there may be
a way, but we have made our vows to each other before God, and we must
do no sin. My heart is heavy. I would give you all, all, but I can't
take back the love I gave you. I could die to set you free again, for in
that way I could keep the blessed love which is part of my soul, in
heaven with me, only for our little son. My life is his now, too, and I
have no right to die, not yet, even to set you free.

"Oh, David, David! This must be the shadow I saw clouding our long path
of light. In some terrible way it has been laid on me to do you a wrong
in the eyes of your family and all your world. Your mother told me you
had work to do for your country, great and glorious work. I believe it,
and you must do it and not let an ignorant mountain girl stand in your
way.

"Oh! I can't think it out to-night. When I try to see a way, I can't.
The visions are lost to my eyes, and they may never come again. The
windows of my soul are clouded, and the clear seeing is gone, because,
David, I know it is myself that comes between. I