It was Fanny again and she grasped my hand nervously, for the train was upon us.

“Promise me solemnly that if you think he is surely going to die you will let me know in time to see him once more.  Promise—­quick—­and kiss me as a pledge.”

The train had stopped.  There was not a moment to lose, and I promised, and kissed the red lips in the darkness, and felt a remorseful pang when I saw the little figure go alone into the car which bore her swiftly away, while I turned my steps homeward with only Leo for my companion.

I had to tell Julia about it, and I gathered up the four scraps of paper from the floor where Daisy had thrown them, and, joining them together, saw they really were the marriage settlement, and kept them for Guy, should he ever be able to hear about it and know what it meant.  There was a telegram for me the next evening, dated at Detroit, and bearing simply the words, “Arrived safely,” and that was all I heard of Daisy.  No one in town knew of her having been here but Julia and myself, and it was better that they should not, for Guy’s life hung on a thread, and for many days and nights I trembled lest that promise, sealed by a kiss, would have to be redeemed.

That was three weeks ago, and Guy is better now and knows us all, and to-day, for the first time, I have a strong hope that I am not to be left alone, and I thank Heaven for that hope, and feel as if I were at peace with all the world, even with Daisy herself, from whom I have heard nothing since that brief telegram.

AUGUST 1, ——.

The shadow of death has passed from our house, and I may almost say the shadow of sickness, too, for though Guy is still weak as a child and thin as a ghost, he is decidedly on the gain, and to-day I drove him out for the third time, and felt from something he said that he was beginning to feel some interest in the life so kindly given back to him.  Still he will never be just the same.  The blow stunned him too completely for him to recover quite his old hopeful, happy manner, and there is a look of age in his face which pains me to see.  He knows Daisy has been here, and why.  I had to tell him all about it, and sooner, too, than I meant.  Almost his first coherent question to me after his reason came back was: 

“Where is Daisy?  I am sure I heard her voice.  It could not have been a dream.  Is she here, or has she been here?  Tell me the truth, Fanny.”

So I told him, though I did not mean to, and showed him the bits of paper, and held his head on my bosom while he cried like a little child.  How he loves her yet, and how glad he was to know that she was not as mercenary as it would at first seem.  Not that her tearing up that paper will make any difference about the money.  She cannot give it to him, he says, until she is of age, neither does he wish it at all, and he would not take it from her; but he is glad to see her disposition in the matter; glad to have me think better of her than I did, and I am certain that he is half expecting to hear from her every day and is disappointed that he does not.  He did not reproach me when I told him about turning her out in the rain; he only said: