t his thinking, followed their direction. As they saw the
parcel he realized my meaning.

"You do not know me," I said. "When you have read those papers, my
own diary and my husband's also, which I have typed, you will know me
better. I have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart
in this cause. But, of course, you do not know me, yet, and I must
not expect you to trust me so far."

He is certainly a man of noble nature. Poor dear Lucy was right about
him. He stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in
order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and
said,

"You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know
you. But I know you now, and let me say that I should have known you
long ago. I know that Lucy told you of me. She told me of you too.
May I make the only atonement in my power? Take the cylinders and
hear them. The first half-dozen of them are personal to me, and they
will not horrify you. Then you will know me better. Dinner will by
then be ready. In the meantime I shall read over some of these
documents, and shall be better able to understand certain things."

He carried the phonograph himself up to my sitting room and adjusted
it for me. Now I shall learn something pleasant, I am sure. For it
will tell me the other side of a true love episode of which I know one
side already.

DR. SEWARD'S DIARY

29 September.--I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of Jonathan
Harker and that other of his wife that I let the time run on without
thinking. Mrs. Harker was not down when the maid came to announce
dinner, so I said, "She is possibly tired. Let dinner wait an hour,"
and I went on with my work. I had just finished Mrs. Harker's diary,
when she came in. She looked sweetly pretty, but very sad, and her
eyes were flushed with crying. This somehow moved me much. Of late I
have had cause for tears, God knows! But the relief of them was
denied me, and now the sight of those sweet eyes, brightened by recent
tears, went straight to my heart. So I said as gently as I could, "I
greatly fear I have distressed you."

"Oh, no, not distressed me," she replied. "But I have been more
touched than I can say by your grief. That is a wonderful machine,
but it is cruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the anguish of
your heart. It was like a soul crying out to Almighty God. No one
must hear them spoken ever again! See