wn bed-room. It
was the very last night that Dolores was to sleep under the same
roof with her mother. On the morrow, she meant to remove to Sir
Anthony Merrick's.

As soon as Herminia had closed the door, she sat down to her
writing-table and began to write. Her pen moved of itself. And
this was her letter:--

"MY DARLING DAUGHTER,--By the time you read these words, I shall be
no longer in the way, to interfere with your perfect freedom of
action. I had but one task left in life--to make you happy. Now I
find I only stand in the way of that object, no reason remains why
I should endure any longer the misfortune of living.

"My child, my child, you must see, when you come to think it over
at leisure, that all I ever did was done, up to my lights, to serve
and bless you. I thought, by giving you the father and the birth I
did, I was giving you the best any mother on earth had ever yet
given her dearest daughter. I believe it still; but I see I should
never succeed in making YOU feel it. Accept this reparation. For
all the wrong I may have done, all the mistakes I may have made, I
sincerely and earnestly implore your forgiveness. I could not have
had it while I lived; I beseech and pray you to grant me dead what
you would never have been able to grant me living.

"My darling, I thought you would grow up to feel as I did; I
thought you would thank me for leading you to see such things as
the blind world is incapable of seeing. There I made a mistake;
and sorely am I punished for it. Don't visit it upon my head in
your recollections when I can no longer defend myself.

"I set out in life with the earnest determination to be a martyr to
the cause of truth and righteousness, as I myself understood them.
But I didn't foresee this last pang of martyrdom. No soul can
tell beforehand to what particular cross the blind chances of the
universe will finally nail it. But I am ready to be offered, and
the time of my departure is close at hand. I have fought a good
fight; I have finished my course; I have kept the faith I started
in life with. Nothing now remains for me but the crown of
martyrdom. My darling, it is indeed a very bitter cup to me that
you should wish me dead; but 'tis a small thing to die, above all
for the sake of those we love. I die for you gladly, knowing that
by doing so I can easily relieve my own dear little girl of one
trouble in life, and make her course lie henceforth through
smoot