know the doctor is come home? Why, he
has been in the house near an hour. He is with my lady."

The doctor proved Jacintha correct by entering the room in person soon
after; on this Rose threw down the letter, and she and the whole party
were instantly occupied in greeting him.

When the ladies had embraced him and Camille shaken hands with him, they
plied him with a thousand questions. Indeed, he had not half satisfied
their curiosity, when Rose happened to catch sight of the letter again,
and took it up to carry to the baroness. She now, for the first time,
eyed it attentively, and the consequence was she uttered an exclamation,
and took the first opportunity to beckon Aubertin.

He came to her; and she put the letter into his hand.

He put up his glasses, and eyed it. "Yes!" whispered he, "it is from
HIM."

Josephine and Camille saw something was going on; they joined the other
two, with curiosity in their faces.

Rose put her hand on a small table near her, and leaned a moment. She
turned half sick at a letter coming from the dead. Josephine now came
towards her with a face of concern, and asked what was the matter.

The reply came from Aubertin. "My poor friends," said he, solemnly,
"this is one of those fearful things that you have not seen in your
short lives, but it has been more than once my lot to witness it. The
ships that carry letters from distant countries vary greatly in speed,
and are subject to detaining accidents. Yes, this is the third time I
have seen a letter come written by a hand known to be cold. The baroness
is a little excited to-day, I don't know from what cause. With your
approbation, Madame Raynal, I will read this letter before I let her see
it."

"Read it, if you please."

"Shall I read it out?"

"Certainly. There may be some wish expressed in it; oh, I hope there
is!"

Camille, from delicacy, retired to some little distance, and the doctor
read the letter in a low and solemn voice.

"MY DEAR MOTHER,--I hope all are well at Beaurepaire, as I am, or I hope
soon to be. I received a wound in our last skirmish; not a very severe
one; but it put an end to my writing for some time."

"Poor fellow! it was his death wound. Why, when was this written?--why,"
and the doctor paused, and seemed stupefied: "why, my dears, has my
memory gone, or"--and again he looked eagerly at the letter--"what was
the date of the battle in which he was killed? for this letter is dated
the 15th of