“He is bound, too.  He has a wife and a son only a little older than you are.  If I stay, I shall be false to your father, to you, to him, and even to myself, because, in my relation to each of you, I shall be living a lie.

          [Sidenote:  The Message]

“Tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good to me, that I appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the beautiful love he has given me.  Tell him I am sorry I have failed him, that I have not been a better wife, but God knows I have done the best I could.  Tell him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day.  But oh, my baby, do not tell him that the full-orbed sun has risen before one who knew only twilight before.

“And, if you can, love your mother a little, as she lies asleep in her far-away grave.  Your father, if he has not forgotten me, will have dealt gently with my memory—­of that I am sure.  But I do not quite trust Miriam, and I do not know what she may have said.  She loved your father and I took him away from her.  She has never forgiven me for that and she never will.

[Sidenote:  A Burden]

“If I have done wrong, it has been in thought only and not in deed.  I do not believe we can control thought or feeling, though action and speech can be kept within bounds.  Forgive me, Barbara, darling, and love me if you can.

“Your

“MOTHER.”

The last words danced through the blurring mist and Barbara sobbed aloud as she put the letter down.  Blind though he was, her father had felt the lack—­the change.  The pity of it all overwhelmed her.

Her thought flew swiftly to Roger, but—­no, he must not know.  This letter was written to the living and not to the dead.  Aunt Miriam would ask no questions—­she was sure of that—­but the message to her father lay heavily upon her soul.  How could she make him believe in the love he so hungered for even now?

As the hours passed, Barbara became calm.  When Miriam came in to see if she wanted anything, she asked for pencil and paper, and for a book to be propped up on a pillow in front of her, so that she might write.

Miriam obeyed silently, taking an occasional swift, keen look at Barbara, but the calm, impassive face and the deep eyes were inscrutable.

[Sidenote:  The Meaning Changed]

As soon as she was alone again, she began to write, with difficulty, from her mother’s letter, altering it as little as possible, and yet changing the meaning of it all.  She could trust herself to read from her own sheet, but not from the other.  It took a long time, but at last she was satisfied.

It was almost dusk when Ambrose North returned, and Barbara asked for a candle to be placed on the small table at the head of her bed.  She also sent away the book and pencil and the paper she had not used.  Miriam’s curiosity was faintly aroused, but, as she told herself, she could wait.  She had already waited long.