ely it would be. But I can't go. I must stay here and
sew and try to make up for lost time. Besides, father would miss me so."

[Sidenote: Wait and See]

Eloise only smiled, for she had plans of her own for father. "We won't
argue," she said, lightly, "we'll wait and see. It's a great mistake to
try to live to-morrow, or even yesterday, to-day."

When Eloise went back to the hotel, her generous heart full of plans for
her protege, Miriam did not hear her go out, and so it happened that
Barbara was alone for some time. Ambrose North had gone for one of his
long walks over the hills and along the shore, expecting to return
before Eloise left Barbara. For some vague reason which he himself could
not have put into words, he did not like to leave her alone with
Miriam.

When Miriam came upstairs, she paused at the door to listen. Hearing no
voices, she peeped within. Barbara lay quietly, looking out of the
window, and dreaming of the day when she could walk freely and joyously,
as did the people who passed and repassed.

Miriam went stealthily to her own room, and took out the letter to
Barbara. She had no curiosity as to its contents. If she had, it would
be an easy matter to open it, and put it into another envelope, without
the address, and explain that it had been merely enclosed with
instructions as to its delivery.

[Sidenote: Miriam Delivers the Letter]

Taking it, she went into the room where Barbara lay--the same room where
the dead Constance had lain so long before.

"Barbara," she said, without emotion, "when your mother died she left
this letter for you, in my care." She put it into the girl's eager,
outstretched hand and left the room, closing the door after her.

With trembling fingers, Barbara broke the seal, and took out the closely
written sheet. All four pages were covered. The ink had faded and the
paper was yellow, but the words were still warm with love and life.

[Sidenote: The Letter]

"Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," the
letter began. "If you live to receive this
letter, your mother will have been dead for many
years and, perhaps, forgotten. I have chosen your
twenty-second birthday for this because I am
twenty-two now, and, when you are the same age,
you will, perhaps, be better fitted to understand
than at any other time.

"I trust you have not married, because, if you
have,