He held out his hand, on the little finger of which shone a diamond, which might, as far as I knew, be the one I had once seen in Olivia’s possession.

“Perhaps you do not know,” he continued, “that it was on this very point, the making of her will, or securing her property to me in some way, that my wife took offence and ran away from me.  Carry was just a little too hard upon her, and I was away in Paris.  But consider, I expected to be left penniless, just as you see me left, and Carry was determined to prevent it.”

“Then you are sure of her death?” I said.

“So sure,” he replied, calmly, “that we were married the next day.  Olivia’s letter to me, as well as those papers, was conclusive of her identity.  Will you like to see it?”

Mrs. Foster gave me a slip of paper, on which were written a few lines.  The words looked faint, and grew paler as I read them.  They were without doubt Olivia’s writing: 

“I know that, you are poor, and I send you all I can spare—­the ring you once gave to me.  I am even poorer than yourself, but I have just enough for my last necessities.  I forgive you, as I trust that God forgives me.”

* * * * *

There was no more to be said or done.  Conviction had been brought home to me.  I rose to take my leave, and Foster held out his hand to me, perhaps with a kindly intention.  Olivia’s ring was glittering on it, and I could not take it into mine.

“Well, well,” he said, “I understand; I am sorry for you.  Come again, Dr. Martin Dobree.  If you know of any remedy for my ease, you are no true man if you do not try it.”

I went down the narrow staircase, closely followed by Mrs. Foster.  Her face had lost its gayety and boldness, and looked womanly and careworn, as she laid her hand upon my arm before opening the house-door.

“For God’s sake, come again,” she said, “if you can do any thing for him!  We have money left yet, and I am earning more every day.  We can pay you well.  Promise me you will come again.”

“I can promise nothing to-night,” I answered.

“You shall not go till you promise,” she said, emphatically.

“Well, then, I promise,” I answered, and she unfastened the chain almost noiselessly, and opened the door into the street.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-NINTH.

SAD SEWS.

A fine, drizzling rain was falling; I was just conscious of it as an element of discomfort, but it did not make me quicken my steps.  I wanted no rapidity of motion now.  There was nothing to be done, nothing to look forward to, nothing to flee away from.  Olivia was dead!

I had said the same thing again and again to myself, that Olivia was dead to me; but at this moment I learned how great a difference there was between the words as a figure of speech and as a terrible reality.  I could no longer think of her as treading the same earth—­the same streets, perhaps; speaking the same language; seeing the same daylight as myself.  I recalled her image, as I had seen her last in Sark; and then I tried to picture her white face, with lips and eyes closed forever, and the awful chill of death resting upon her.  It seemed impossible; yet the cuckoo-cry went on in my brain, “Olivia is dead—­is dead!”