She smiled at him, while the tears slipped down her cheeks.  She cherished his cold hands, holding them close in her warm, soft palms.

He seemed to be trying to speak.  Then suddenly he disengaged himself, rose feebly, went to the mantelpiece, lit another candle, and brought it, holding it towards something on a chair—­beckoning to her.  She went to him—­perceived the unframed portrait—­and cried out.

‘Phoebe sent it me—­just now,’ he said, almost in a whisper—­’without a word—­without a single word.  It was left here by a boy—­with no letter—­no address.  Wasn’t it cruel?—­wasn’t it horribly cruel?’

She watched him in dismay.

‘Are you sure there was nothing—­no letter?’

He shook his head.  She released herself, took up the picture, and examined it.  Then she shook out the folds of the shawl, the fragments of the brown paper, and still found nothing.  But as she took the candle and stooped with it to the floor, something white gleamed.  A neatly folded slip of paper had dropped among some torn letters beneath the table.  She held it up to him with a cry of delight.

He made a movement, then fell back.

‘Read it, please,’ he said, hoarsely, refusing it.  ’There’s something wrong with my eyes.’

And he held his hands pressed to them, while she—­little reluctantly, wistfully—­opened and read: 

* * * * *

MY DEAR JOHN,—­I have Phoebe safe.  She can’t write.  But she sends you this—­as her sign.  It’s been with her all through.  She knows she’s been a sinful wife.  But there, it’s no use writing.  Besides, it makes me cry.  But come!—­come soon!  Your child is an angel.  You’ll forget and forgive when you see her.

[Illustration:  ‘Be my messenger’]

I brought Phoebe here last week.  Do you see the address?—­it’s the old cottage!  I took it with a friend—­three years ago.  It seemed the right place for your poor wife—­till she could make up her mind how and when to let you know.

As to how I came to know—­we’ll tell you all that.

Carrie knows nothing yet.  I keep thinking of the first look in her eyes!  Come soon!

Ever your affectionate old friend,

ANNA MASON.

There was silence.  Eugenie had read the letter in a soft voice that trembled.  She looked up.  Fenwick was staring straight before him, and she saw him shudder.

‘I know it’s horrible,’ he said, in a low voice—­’and cowardly—­but I feel as if I couldn’t face it—­I couldn’t bear it.’

And he began feebly to pace to and fro, looking like an old, grey-haired man in the dim grotesqueness of the light.  Eugenie understood.  She felt, with mingled dread and pity, that she was in the presence of a weakness which represented far more than the immediate emotion; was the culmination, indeed, of a long, disintegrating process.

She hesitated—­moved—­wavered—­then took courage again.