“MADAM—­Please accept this in payment of a debt, due your late
     husband by the writer.”

That was all, and there was no signature.

“How strange,” said the widow; “I knew but little of Mr. Graystone’s business affairs.  It is providential.”

“Just five hundred dollars,” said Mrs. Mann; “Why, Clemence, it’s a fortune!  Why don’t you tell us how pleased you are?  You do not say anything.”

It was true this sudden and unexpected relief, from an unknown source, had bewildered the girl.  She could hardly bring herself to realize that her pecuniary troubles were at an end, for the time being, at least.

“I am very much pleased, Mrs. Mann,” she said, brightening, “but give me time to get accustomed to my sudden accession of wealth, pray!”

“I would give anything to get that sad look out of your face,” said the good woman, coming closer to the girl, and folding her in a motherly embrace.  “Go out for a walk, you have been in the house all day, and you look pale and weary.”

The long day drew to a close, and night came on dark and chill.  The wind wailed around the house mournfully, and as it drew towards midnight, continued to rise still higher.  The clock struck twelve.

There was an uneasy movement of the invalid tossing restlessly.  Once she made an effort to raise herself, and the thin hands wandered caressingly over the bright hair of the young girl who slumbered peacefully beside her.

“Poor darling,” she said, “you are heavily burdened, but it will not be for long.  I feel the hour approaching.”

A cold moisture settled upon her forehead, her breath came in labored gasps.

“Mother,” wailed Clemence, now fully aroused, kneeling beside her, and chafing the cold hands.  “Mother, speak to me?”

There was no response.  The girl was alone with her dead.

“I declare, I am nearly distracted myself,” said Mrs. Mann to Alicia Linden some weeks after.  “It would melt the heart of a stone to hear that poor dear crying out in her delirium, ’what shall I do to obtain this or that for the poor suffering mother?’ That’s always the burden of her thoughts.  It’s perfectly dreadful.  Mrs. Linden, do you think she can live?”

“I hope she may, with careful nursing,” was the reply.  “We will do all we can, and leave the event with Providence.”

It hardly seemed a kindness to Clemence, when they told her, after she became conscious, of how near she had been to death, and that only the kindest care had won her back to life.

“It would have been better to let me die,” she said, thinking how little now she had to live for.

“If God, in his wisdom, saw fit to restore you, Clemence, it was for some wise purpose of his own,” said her friend.

“I know it,” she replied patiently; “but I have suffered so much that I am weary of life.  Remember, I am all alone in the world.”