[Sidenote:  The Assurance]

“She died loving me,” said Ambrose North, in a shrill whisper.  His eyes were closed again, for the strain had hurt—­terribly.  Dimly, he remembered the other letter.  This was not the same, but the other had been to Barbara, and not to him.  He did not stop to wonder how it came to be in his pocket.  It sufficed that some Angel of God, working through devious ways and long years, had given him at last, face to face, the assurance he had hungered for since the day Constance died.

In a blinding instant, Miriam remembered that no names had been mentioned in the letter.  He had made a mistake—­but she could set him right.  Constance should not triumph again, even in an hour like this.

Ambrose North turned back into the shadow, fearing to face the window.  The woman cowering in the corner advanced steadily to meet him.  He saw her, vaguely, when his eyes became accustomed to the change of lights.

“Miriam!” he cried, transfigured by joy.  “She died loving me!  I have it here.  It was only because she was not strong—­she was ill, and she never let us know.”  He held forth the letter with a shaking hand.

“She—­” began Miriam.

“She died loving me!” he cried.  “Oh, Miriam, can you not see?  I have it here.”  His voice rang through the house like some far silver bugle chanting triumph over a field of the slain.  “She died loving me!”

* * * * *

[Sidenote:  Triumphant Cry]

Barbara had already wakened and she sat up, rubbing her eyes.  The attic was almost dark.  She went downstairs hurriedly, forgetting her borrowed finery until her long train caught on a projecting splinter and had to be loosened.  When she reached her own door she started toward her mirror, anxious to see how she looked, but that triumphant cry from the room below made her heart stand still.

White as death and strangely fearful, she went down and into the living-room, where the last light deepened the shadows and lay lovingly upon her father’s illumined face.

Barbara smiled and went toward him, with her hands outstretched in welcome.  Miriam shrank back into the farthest shadows, shaking as though she had seen a ghost.

There was an instant’s tense silence.  All the forces of life and love seemed suddenly to have concentrated into the space of a single heart-beat.  Then the old man spoke.

“Constance,” he said, unsteadily, “have you come back, Beloved?  It has been so long!”

Radiant with beauty no woman had ever worn before, Barbara went to him, still smiling, and the old man’s arms closed hungrily about her.  “I dreamed you were dead,” he sobbed, “but I knew you died loving me.  Where is our baby, Constance?  Where is my Flower of the Dusk?”

[Sidenote:  Burden of Joy]

Even as he spoke, the overburdened heart failed beneath its burden of joy.  He staggered and would have fallen, had not Miriam caught him in her strong arms.  Together, they helped him to the couch, where he lay down, breathing with great difficulty.