“I’ll kill you if you don’t give me that letter!” and actually, in her blind rage, reached toward the table as if to get a knife.  Mr. Dinneford, who had been for a moment stupefied, now started forward, and throwing his arms about his wife, held her tightly until Edith could escape with the letter, not releasing her until the sound of his daughter’s retiring feet were no longer heard.  By this time she had ceased to struggle; and when he released her, she stood still in a passive, dull sort of way, her arms falling heavily to her sides.  He looked into her face, and saw that the eyes were staring wildly and the muscles in a convulsive quiver.  Then starting and reaching out helplessly, she fell forward.  Catching her in his arms, Mr. Dinneford drew her toward a sofa, but she was dead before he could raise her from the floor.

When Edith reached her room, she shut and locked the door.  Then all her excitement died away.  She sat down, and opening the letter with hands that gave no sign of inward agitation or suspense, read it through.  It was dated at Havana, and was as follows: 

“MRS. HELEN DINNEFORD:  MADAM—­My physician tells me that I cannot live a week—­may die at any moment; and I am afraid to die with one unconfessed and unatoned sin upon my conscience—­a sin into which I was led by you, the sharer of my guilt.  I need not go into particulars.  You know to what I refer—­the ruin of an innocent, confiding young man, your daughter’s husband.  I do not wonder that he lost his reason!  But I have information that his insanity has taken on the mildest form, and that his friends are only keeping him at the hospital until they can get a pardon from the governor.  It is in your power and mine to establish his innocence at once.  I leave you a single mouth in which to do this, and at the same time screen yourself, if that be possible.  If, at the end of a month, it is not done, then a copy of this letter, with a circumstantial statement of the whole iniquitous affair, will be placed in the hands of your husband, and another in the hands of your daughter.  I have so provided for this that no failure can take place.  So be warned and make the innocence of George Granger as clear as noonday.

“LLOYD FREELING.”

Twice Edith read this letter through before a sign of emotion was visible.  She looked about the room, down at herself, and again at the letter.

“Am I really awake?” she said, beginning to tremble.  Then the glad but terrible truth grappled with her convictions, and through the wild struggle and antagonism, of feeling that shook her soul there shone into her face a joy so great that the pale features grew almost radiant.

“Innocent! innocent!” fell from her lips, over which crept a smile of ineffable love.  But it faded out quickly, and left in its place a shadow of ineffable pain.

“Innocent! innocent!” she repeated, now clasping her hands and lifting her eyes heavenward.  “Dear Lord and Saviour!  My heart is full of thankfulness!  Innocent!  Oh, let it be made as clear as noonday!  And my baby, Lord—­oh, my baby, my baby!  Give him back to me!”