The blood beat hard in his pulses.  He waited, wisely, until he was calm, then opened his eyes once more.  The room was not dark, but was filled with the soft, golden glow of sunset—­a light that illumined and, strangely, brought no pain.  Objects long unfamiliar save by touch loomed large and dark before him.  Remembered colours came back, mellowed by the half-light.  Distances readjusted themselves and perspectives appeared in the transparent mist that seemed to veil everything.  He closed his eyes, and said, aloud:  “I can see!  Oh, I can see!”

[Sidenote:  Reading the Letter]

Little by little the mist disappeared and objects became clear.  The velvety softness of the last light lay kindly upon the dingy room.  When he tried to read the letter the words danced on the page.  Trembling, he rose and took it over to the window, where the light was stronger.  As he stood there, with his back to the door, Miriam, unheard, came into the room.

The bandages on the floor, the eagerness in every line of his body as he stood at the window, and the letter in his hand, gave her, in a single instant, all the information she needed.  Her heart beat high with wild hope—­the hour of her vengeance had come at last.

She feared he would not be able to read it.  Then she remembered the yellowed page on which the writing stood out as clearly as though it had been large print.  If he could see at all, he could see that.

Little by little, sustained and supported by his immeasurable longing, the man at the window spelled out the words, in an eager whisper: 

“You who have loved me since the beginning of time—­will understand and forgive me—­for what I do to-day.  I do it because I am not strong enough—­to go on—­and do my duty—­by those who need me.”

Miriam nodded with satisfaction.  At last he knew why Constance had taken her own life.

“If there should be—­meeting—­past the grave—­some day you and I—­shall come together again—­with no barrier between us.”  He put his hand to his forehead as though he did not quite understand, but hurried on to the next sentence, for his eyes were failing under the strain.

“I take with me—­the knowledge of your love—­which has strengthened—­and sustained me—­since the day—­we first met—­and must make—­even a grave—­warm and sweet.”

[Sidenote:  Radiance of Soul]

The light in the room seemed to Miriam to be not wholly of the golden sunset.  Some radiance of soul must have made that clear soft light which veiled but did not hide.  It was sunset, and yet the light was that of a Summer afternoon.

“And remember this—­dead though I am—­I love you still—­you—­and my little lame baby—­who needs me so—­and whom—­I must leave—­because I am not strong—­enough to stay.  Through life—­and in death—­and eternally yours—­Constance.”

There was a tense, unbearable silence.  Miriam moistened her parched lips and chafed her cold hands.  “At last,” she thought.  “At last.”