“My little wilding!—­When you read this I shall be gone to that wonderful world which all the clergymen tell us about, but which none of them are in any great hurry to see for themselves.  I hope —­and I sometimes believe—­such a world exists—­and that perhaps it is a place where a man may sow seed and raise crops as well and as prosperously as on Briar Farm—­however, I’m praying I may not be taken till I’ve seen you safely wed to Robin—­and yet, something tells me this will not be; and that’s the something that makes me write this letter and put it with the pearls that are, by my will, destined for you on your marriage-morning.  I’m writing it, remember, on the same night I’ve told you all about yourself—­the night of the day the doctor gave me my death-warrant.  I may live a year,—­I may live but a week,—­it will be hard if I may not live to see you married!—­but God’s will must be done.  The bank-notes folded in this letter make up four hundred pounds—­and this money you can spend as you like—­on your clothes for the bridal, or on anything you fancy—­I place no restriction on you as to its use.  When a maid weds there are many pretties she needs to buy, and the prettier they are for you the better shall I be pleased.  Whether I live or whether I die, you need say nothing of this money to Robin, or to anyone.  It is your own absolutely—­to do as you like with.  I am thankful to feel that you will be safe in Robin’s loving care—­for the world is hard on a woman left alone as you would be, were it not for him.  I give you my word that if I had any clue, however small, to your real parentage, I would write down here for you all I know—­but I know nothing more than I have told you.  I have loved you as my own child and you have been the joy of my old days.  May God bless you and give you joy and peace in Briar Farm!—­you and your children, and your children’s children!  Amen!

“Your ‘Dad’

“Hugo Jocelyn.”

She read this to the end, and then some tension in her brain seemed to relax, and she wept long and bitterly, her head bent down on the letter and her bright hair falling over it.  Presently, checking her sobs, she rose, and looked about her in a kind of dream—­the familiar little room seemed to have suddenly become strange to her, and she thought she saw standing in one corner a figure clad in armour,—­its vizor was up, showing a sad pale face and melancholy eyes—­the lips moved—­and a sighing murmur floated past her ears—­“Mon coeur me soutien!” A cold terror seized her, and she trembled from head to foot—­then the vision or hallucination vanished as swiftly and mysteriously as it had appeared.  Rallying her forces, she gradually mastered the overpowering fear which for a moment had possessed her,—­and folding up Hugo Jocelyn’s last letter, she kissed it, and placed it in her bosom.  The bank-notes were four in number—­each for one hundred pounds;—­these she put in an envelope, and shut them in the drawer containing her secret manuscript.