It bore her name written over and over several times, first in rather labored imitation of her own handwriting, then more successfully, and, lastly, in so perfect a manner that even Julia herself was almost deceived into believing it her genuine signature.  Then followed several L’s and J’s, as though the copyist had not considered those initials satisfactory counterparts of the original.

Julia wondered, but did not doubt; and as she tossed the fragment from her hand, Virginie turned and perceived the action.  Instantly a deep flush of crimson overspread the maid’s face; she darted suddenly forward, and uttered an exclamation of alarm.  Her cry was immediately succeeded by the sharp noise of a pistol report beneath the window, and a heavy, muffled sound, as of the fall of a body upon the snow-covered earth.  Julia looked out in fear and surprise.  The leaping firelight from within the room streamed through the window, and, in the heart of its vivid brightness, revealed the figure of a man lying motionless upon the whitened ground, his face buried in the scattered snow, and his outstretched hand grasping a pistol.  Julia leaped through the open casement with a wild shriek, and flung herself on her knees beside him.

“Phil!  Phil!” she said, “what have you done? what has happened?  Speak to me!”

But the only response was a faint, low moan.

Philip Brian had shot himself!

In an agony of grief and horror Julia lifted his head upon her arm, and pressed her hand to his heart.  The movement recalled him to life for a few moments; he opened his eyes, looked at her, and uttered a few broken words.  She stooped and listened eagerly.

“The letter!” he gasped; “the letter you sent me!  O Julia, you have broken my heart!  How could you be false to me, and I loving you—­trusting you—­so wholly!  But at least I shall not live to see you wed the man you have chosen; I came here tonight to die, since without you life would be intolerable.  See what you have done!”

Desperate and silent, she wound her arms around him, and pressed her lips to his.  A convulsive shudder seized him; his eyes rolled back, and with a sigh he resigned himself to the death he had courted so madly.  Death in the passion of a last kiss!

Julia sat still, the corpse of her lover supported on her arm, and her hand clasped in his, tearless and frigid as though she had been turned into stone by some fearful spell.  Half hidden in the bosom of his vest was a letter, the broken seal of which bore her own monogram.  She plucked it out of its resting place, and read it hastily by the flicker of the firelight.  It was in Lady Sarah’s handwriting, and ran thus: