my cloak with the quaint curiosity
of a man very ignorant about feminine belongings), "My darling, you seem
sadly ill, but yet, Doralice, your sweet face does look so pretty in
these great furs."

* * * * *

My story is ended, Nelly, and my promise fulfilled. The rest you know.
How the detective, who left London before four o'clock that morning,
found the rusty knife that had been buried with the hand, and
apprehended Parker, who confessed his guilt. The wretched man said, that
being out on the fatal night about some sick cattle, he had met poor
Edmund by the low gate; that Edmund had begun, as usual, to taunt him;
that the opportunity of revenge was too strong, and he had murdered him.
His first idea had been flight, and being unable to drag the ring from
Edmund's hand, which was swollen, he had cut it off, and thrown the body
into the ditch. On hearing of the finding of the body, and of poor
George's position, he determined to brave it out, with what almost fatal
success we have seen. He dared not then sell the ring, and so buried it
in his barn. Two things respecting his end were singular: First, at the
last he sent for Dr. Penn, imploring him to stay with him till he died.
That good man, as ever, obeyed the call of duty and kindness, but he was
not fated to see the execution of my brother's murderer. The night
before, Thomas Parker died in prison; not by his own hand, Nelly. A fit
of apoplexy, the result of intense mental excitement, forestalled the
vengeance of the law.

Need I tell you, dear friend, who know it so well, that I am happy?

Not, my love, that such tragedies can be forgotten--these deep wounds
leave a scar. This one brought my husband's first white hairs, and took
away my girlhood for ever. But if the first blush of careless gaiety has
gone from life, if we are a little "old before our time," it may be that
this state of things has its advantages. Perhaps, having known together
such real affliction, we cannot now afford to be disturbed by the petty
vexations and worthless misunderstandings that form the troubles of
smoother lives. Perhaps, having been all but so awfully parted, we can
never afford, in this short life, to be otherwise than of one heart and
one soul. Perhaps, my dear, in short, the love that kept faith through
shame, and was cemented by fellow-suffering, can hardly do otherwise
than flourish to our heart's best content in the sunshine of prosperity
wit