"Never mind, Hugo," he said, bending over him. "It was an accident; it might have been done by either of us. God knows I sorrowed bitterly when I thought my hand had done it; perhaps you have sorrowed, too. At any rate, you are trying to make amends, and if I have anything personally to forgive——"

"Wait," said Hugo, in his feeble yet imperious voice, with long pauses between the brief, broken sentences. "You do not understand. I did it on purpose. I meant to kill him. He had struck me, and I meant to be revenged. I thought I should suffer for it—and I did not care.... I did not mean Brian to be blamed; but I dared not tell the truth.... Put me down, Angela; I killed him, do you hear?"

But she did not move.

"Did you wish me to write this statement?" said Mr. Colquhoun, in his dryest manner. "If so, I have done it."

"Give me the pen," said Hugo, when he had heard what had been written.

He took it between his feeble fingers. He could scarcely write; but he managed to scrawl his name at the bottom of the paper on which his confession was recorded, and two of the persons present signed their names as witnesses.

"Tell Mrs. Luttrell," said Hugo, very faintly, when this was over. Then he lay back, closed his eyes, and remained for some time without speaking.

"I have something else to tell," he said, at last. "Kitty—you know, she married me ... but it was against her own will. She did not elope with me. I carried her off.... She will explain it all now. Do you hear, Kitty? Tell anything you like. It will not hurt me. You never loved me, and you never would have done. But nobody will ever love you as I did; remember that. And I think that's all."

"Have you nothing to say," asked Mr. Colquhoun in very solemn tones, "about your conduct to Dino Vasari and Mrs. Luttrell?"

"Nothing to you."

"But everything to God," murmured Angela. He raised his eyes to her face and did not speak. "Pray for His forgiveness, Hugo, and He will grant it. Even if your sins are as scarlet they shall be as white as snow."

"I want your forgiveness," he whispered, "and nothing more."

"I will give you mine," she said, and the tears fell from her eyes as she spoke; "and Brian will give you his: yes, Brian, yes. As we hope ourselves to be forgiven, Hugo, we forgive you; and we will pray with you for God's forgiveness, too."

She had taken Brian's hand and laid it upon Hugo's, and for a moment the three hands rested together in one strangely loving clasp. And then Hugo whispered, "Pray for me if you like: I—I dare not pray."

And, forgetful of any human presence but that of this sick, sinful soul about to come before its Maker, Angela prayed aloud.

* * * * *

He died in the early dawn, with his hand still clasped in hers. The short madness of his love for Kitty seemed to have faded from his memory. Perhaps all earthly things had grown rather faint to him: certain it was that his attempt on the lives of Dino and of Mrs. Luttrell did not seem to weigh very heavily on his conscience. It was the thought of Richard Luttrell that haunted him more than all beside. It was with a long, shuddering moan of fear—and, as Angela hoped (but only faintly hoped), of penitence—that his soul went out into the darkness of eternity.

* * * * *

With Hugo Luttrell's death, the troubles of the family at Netherglen seemed to disappear. Old Mrs. Luttrell's powers of speech remained with her, although she could not use her limbs; and the hardness and stubbornness of her character had undergone a marvellous change. She wept when she heard of Dino's death; but her affection for Brian, and also for Elizabeth, proved to be strong and unwavering. Her great desire—that the properties of Netherglen and Strathleckie should be united—was realised in a way of which she had never dreamt. Brian himself believed firmly that he was of Italian parentage and that Dino Vasari was the veritable heir of the Luttrells; but the notion was now so painful to Mrs. Luttrell, that he never spoke of it, and agreed, as he said to Elizabeth, to be recognised as the master of Netherglen and Strathleckie under false pretences. "For the whole estate, to tell the truth, is yours, not mine," he said. And she: "What does that matter, since we are man and wife! There is no 'mine and thine' in the case. It is all yours and all mine; for we are one."

In fact, no words were more applicable to Brian and Elizabeth than the quaint lines of the old poet:

"They were so one, it never could be said Which of them ruled and which of them obeyed. He ruled because she would obey; and she, By her obeying, ruled as well as he. There ne'er was known between them a dispute Save which the other's will should execute."

The Herons returned to London shortly after Elizabeth's marriage, and with them Kitty returned, too. But it was a very different Kitty from the one who had frolicked at Strathleckie, or pined at Netherglen. The widowed Mrs. Hugo Luttrell was a gentler, perhaps a sadder, woman than Kitty Heron had promised to be: but she was a sweeter woman, and one who formed the chief support and comfort to her father's large and irregular household, as it passed from its home in Scotland to a more permanent abode in Kensington. For the house in Gower-street, dear as it was to Kitty's heart, was not the one which Mr. and Mrs. Heron preferred to any other.

Little Jack, now slowly recovering from his affection of the spine, found in Kitty the motherliness which he had sorely missed when Elizabeth first went away. His affection was very sweet to Kitty. She had never hitherto been more than a playmate to her step-brothers: she was destined henceforward to be their chief counsellor and friend. And the little baby-sister was almost as a child of her own to Kitty's heart.

It was not until more than a year of quiet life in her father's home had passed away that she saw much of Rupert Vivian. She was very shy and silent with him when he began to seek her out again. He thought her a little cold, and fancied that a blind man could find no favour in her eyes. It was Angela—that universal peacemaker—who at last set matters straight between the two.

"Kitty," she said, one day when Kitty was calling upon her, "why are you so distant and unfriendly to my brother?"

"I did not mean to be," said Kitty, with rising colour.

"But, indeed, you are. And he thinks—he thinks—that he has offended you."

"Oh, no! How could he!" ejaculated Kitty. Whereat Angela smiled. "You must tell him not to think any such thing, Angela, please."

"You must tell him yourself. He might not believe me," said Angela.

Kitty was very simple in some things still. She took Angela's advice literally.

"Shall I tell him now—to-day?" she said, seriously.

"Yes, now, to-day," said Angela. "You will find him in the library."

"But he will think it so strange if I go to him there."

"Not at all. I would not send you to him if I did not know what he would feel. Kitty, he is not happy. Can you not make him a little happier?"

And then Angela, who had meanwhile led her guest to the library door, opened it and made her enter, almost against her will. She stood for a moment inside the door, doubting whether to go or stay. Then she looked at Rupert, and decided that she would stay.

He was alone. He was leaning his head on one hand in an attitude of listlessness, which showed that he was out of spirits.

"Is that you, Angela?" he said.

"No," said Kitty, softly. "It's not Angela: it's me."

She was very ungrammatical, but her tone was sweet, and Rupert smiled. His face looked as if the sunshine had fallen on it.

"Me, is it?" he said, half-rising. Then, more gravely—"I am very glad to see you—no, not to see you: that's not it, is it?—to have you here."

"Are you?" said Kitty.

There were tears in her voice.

"Am I not?" He was holding her hand now, and she did not draw it away even when he raised it, somewhat hesitatingly, to his lips. He went on in a very low voice:—"It would make the happiness of my life to have you always with me. But I must not hope for that."

"Why not?" said Kitty, giving him both hands instead of one; "when it would make mine, too."

And after that there was no more to be said.

"Tell me," she whispered, a little later, "am I at all now like the little girl in Gower-street that you used to know?"

"Not a bit," he answered, kissing her. "You are dearer, sweeter, lovelier than any little girl in Gower-street or anywhere else in the whole wide world."

"And you forgive me for my foolishness?"

"My darling," he said, "your foolishness was nothing to my own. And if you can bear to tie yourself to a blind man, so many years older than yourself, who has proved himself the most arrogant and conceited fool alive——"

"Hush!" said Kitty. "I shall not allow you to speak in that way—of the man I love."

"Kiss me, then, for the first time in your life, Kitty, and I will say no more."

And so they married and went down to Vivian Court in Devonshire, where they live and flourish still, the happiest of the happy. Never more happy than when Brian and Elizabeth came to spend a week with them, bringing a pair of sturdy boys—Bernard and Richard they are called—to play with Kitty's little girl upon the velvet lawns and stately terraces of Vivian Court. Kitty is already making plans for the future union of Bernard Luttrell and her own little Angela; but her husband shakes his head, and laughingly tells her that planned marriages never come to good.

"I thought all marriages had to be planned," says Kitty, innocently.

"Mine was not."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I was led into it—quite against my will, madam—by a tricksy, wilful sprite, who would have her own way——"

"Say that you have not repented it, Rupert," she whispers, looking up at him with the fond, sorrowful eyes that he cannot see.

"My own love," he answers, taking her in his arms and kissing her, "you make the sunshine of my life; and as long as you are near me I am thoroughly and unspeakably content."

Kitty knows that it is true, although she weeps sometimes in secret at the thought that he will never look upon his little daughter's face. But everyone says that the tiny Angela is the image of Kitty herself as a child; and, therefore, when the mother wishes to describe the winning face and dancing eyes, she tells Rupert that he has only to picture to himself once more—"the little girl that he used to know in Gower Street."



CHAPTER LII.

"THE END CROWNS ALL, AND THAT IS YET TO COME."

And what of Angela Vivian, the elder? Angela, whose heart was said to be buried in a grave?

After Hugo Luttrell's death, she remained for some time at Netherglen, sitting a great deal in Mrs. Luttrell's room and trying to resume the daughter-like ways which had grown so natural to her. But she was driven slowly to perceive that she was by no means necessary to Mrs. Luttrell's happiness. Mrs. Luttrell loved her still, but her heart had gone out vehemently to Brian and Elizabeth; and when either of them was within call she wanted nothing else. Brian and Elizabeth would gladly have kept Angela with them for evermore, but it seemed to her that her duty lay now rather with her brother than with those who were, after all, of no kith or kin to her. She returned, therefore, to Rupert's house in Kensington, and lived there until his marriage took place.

She was sorry for one thing—that the friendship between herself and Percival Heron seemed to be broken. The words which she had spoken to him before Hugo's death had evidently made a very strong impression upon Percival's mind. He looked guilty and uncomfortable when he spoke to her; his manner became unusually abrupt, and at last she noticed that, if she happened to come into a room which he occupied, he immediately made an excuse for leaving it. She had very few opportunities of seeing him at all; but every time she met him, his avoidance of her became so marked that she was hurt and grieved by it. But she could not do anything to mend matters; and so she waited and was silent.

She heard, on her return to Kensington, that he had been a great deal to her brother's house, and had done much for Rupert's comfort. But as soon as he knew that she intended to stay in London he began to discontinue his visits. It was very evident that he had determined to see as little of her as possible. And, by-and-bye, he never came at all. For full three months before Kitty's engagement to Rupert Percival did not appear at the pleasant house in Kensington.

Angela was sitting alone, however, one day when he was announced. He came in, glanced round with a vexed and irritated air, and made some sort of apology.

"I came to see Rupert. I thought that you were away," he said.

"And, therefore, you came?" she said, with a little smile. "It was very good of you to come when you thought he would be lonely."

"I did not mean that exactly."

"No? I wish you would come to see him a little oftener, Mr. Heron; he misses your visits very much."

"He won't miss them long, he will soon get used to doing without me."

"But why should he?"

"Because I am going away."

"Where are you going?" said Angela, turning to look at him.

"To California," he answered grimly.

She paused for a moment, and then said in a tranquil tone, "Oh, no."

"No? Why not?" said Percival, smiling a little in spite of himself.

"I think that if you go you will be back again in six months."

"Ah? You think I have no constancy in me; no resolution; no manliness."

"Indeed, I think nothing so dreadful. But California is not the place where I can imagine a man of your tastes being happy. Were you so very happy on the Rocas Reef?"

"That has nothing to do with it. I should have been happy if I had had enough to do. I want some active work."

"Can you not find that in England?"

"I daresay I might. I hate England. I have nothing to keep me in England."

"But what has happened?" asked Angela. "You did not talk in this way when you came from the Rocas Reef."

"Because I did not know what a fool I could make of myself."

She glanced at him with a faint, sweet smile. "You alarm me, Mr. Heron," she said, very tranquilly. "What have you been doing?"

Percival started up from the low seat in which he had placed himself, walked to the window, and then came back to her side and looked at her. He was standing in one of his most defiant attitudes, with his hands thrust into his pockets, and a deep dent on his brow.

"I will tell you what I have been doing," he said, in a curiously dogged tone. "I'll give you my history for the last year or two. It isn't a creditable one. Will you listen to it or not?"

"I will listen to it," said Angela.

She looked at him with serene, meditative eyes, which calmed him almost against his will as he proceeded.

"I'll tell you, then," he said. "I nearly wrecked three lives through my own selfish obstinacy. I almost broke a woman's heart and sacrificed my honour——"

"Almost? Nearly?" said Angela, gently. "That is possible, but you saw your mistake in time. You drew back; you did not do these things."

"I'll tell you what I did do!" he exclaimed. "I whined to you, until I loathe myself, about a woman who never cared a straw for me. Do you call that manly?"

"I call it very natural," said Angela.

"And after all——"

"Yes, after all?" He hesitated so long that she looked up into his face and gently repeated the words "After all?"

"After all," he went on at last, with a sort of groan, "I love—someone else."

They were both silent. He threw himself into a chair, and looked at her expectantly.

"Don't you despise me?" he said, presently.

"Why should I, Mr. Heron?"

"Why? Because you are so constant, so changeless, that you cannot be expected to sympathise with a man who loves a second time," cried Percival, in an exasperated tone. "And yet this love is as sunlight to candlelight, as wine to water! But you will never understand that, you, with your heart given to one man—buried in a grave."

He stopped short; she had half-risen, and made a gesture as if she would have bidden him be silent.

"There!" he said, vehemently. "I am doing it again. I am hurting you, grieving you, as I did once before, when I forgot your great sorrow; and you did right to reprove me then. I know you have hated me ever since. I know you cannot forgive me for the pain I inflicted. It's, of course, of no use to say I am sorry; that is an utterly futile thing to do; but as far as any such feeble reparation is in my power, I am quite prepared to offer it to you. Sorry? I have cursed myself and my own folly ever since."

"You are making a mistake, Mr. Heron," said Angela. She felt as if she could say nothing more.

"How am I making a mistake?" he asked.

"At the time you refer to," she said, in a hurried yet stumbling sort of way, "when you said what you did, I thought it careless, inconsiderate of you; but I have not remembered it in the way that you seem to think; I have not been angry. I have not hated you. There is no need for you to tell me that you are sorry."

"I think there is every need," he said. "Do you suppose that I am going away into the Western wilds without even an apology?"

"It is needless," she murmured.

There was a pause, and then he leaned forward and said in a deeper tone:—

"You would not say that it was needless if you felt now as you did just then."

She looked at him helplessly, but did not speak.

"It is three years since he died. I don't ask you to forget him, only I ask whether you could not love someone else—as well?"

"Oh, Mr. Heron, don't ask me," she said, tremblingly. And then she covered her face with her hands; her cheeks were crimson.

"I will ask nothing," said Percival. "I will only tell you what my feelings have been, and then I will go away. It's a selfish indulgence, I know; but I beg of you to grant it. When I had spoken those inconsiderate words of mine I was ashamed of myself. I saw how much I had grieved you, and I vowed that I would never come into your presence again. I went away, and I kept away. You have seen for yourself how I have tried to avoid you, have you not?"

"Yes," she said, gently. "I have seen it."

"You know the reason now. I could not bear to see you and feel what you must be thinking of me. And then—then—I found that it was misery to be without you. I found that I missed you inexpressibly. I did not know till then how dear you had grown to me."

She did not move, she did not speak, she only sat and listened, with her eyes fixed upon her folded hands. But there was nothing forbidding in her silence. He felt that he might go on.

"It comes to this with me," he said, "that I cannot bear to meet you as I meet an ordinary friend or acquaintance. I would rather know that I shall never see you again. Either you must be all to me—or nothing. I know that it must be nothing, and so—I am going to California."

"Do not go," she said, without looking up. She spoke coldly, he thought, but sweetly, too.

"I must," he answered. "I must—in spite of the joy that it is to me to be even in your presence, and to hear your voice—I must go. I cannot bear it. I love you too well. It is a greater pain than I can bear, to look at you and to know that I can bring you no comfort, no solace; that your heart is buried with Richard Luttrell in a grave."

"You are mistaken," she said again. Then, in a faltering voice, "you can bring me comfort. I shall be sorry if you are away."

He caught his breath. "Do you mean it, Angela?" he cried, eagerly. "Think what you are saying, do not tell me to stay unless—unless—you can give me a little hope. Is it possible that you do not forbid me to love you? Do you think that in time—in time—I might win your love?"

"Not in time," she murmured, "but now—now."

He could hardly believe his ears. He knelt down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Now, Angela?" he said. "Can you love me now? Oh, my love, my love! tell me the truth! Have you forgiven me?"

Her eyes were swimming in tears, but she gave him a glance of so much tenderness and trust, that he never again doubted her entire forgiveness. She might never forget Richard Luttrell, but her heart, with all its wealth of love, was given to the man who knelt before her, not buried in a grave.

* * * * *

Of course he did not go to California. The project was an utterly unsuitable one, and nobody scouted it more disdainfully than did he as soon as the mood of discontent was past. If a crowning touch were needed to the happiness of Brian and Elizabeth, it was given by this marriage. The sting of remorse which had troubled them at times when they looked at Percival's gloomy face was quite withdrawn. Percival's face was seldom gloomy now. Angela seemed to have found the secret of soothing his irritable nerves, of calming his impatience. Her sweet serenity was never ruffled by his violence; and for her sake he learned to subdue his temper, and to smooth his tongue as well as his brow. She led the lion in a leash of silk, and he was actually proud to be so led.

They took a house in the unfashionable precincts of Russell-square, where Percival could be near his work. They were not rich, by any manner of means; but they were able to live in a very comfortable fashion, and soon found themselves surrounded by a circle of friends, who were quite as much attracted by Angela's tranquil grace and tenderness as by Percival's fitful brilliancy. Percival would never be very popular; but it was soon admitted on every hand that his intellect had seldom been so clear, his insight so great, nor his wit so free from bitterness, as in the days that succeeded his marriage with Angela. There is every reason to suppose that he will yet be a thoroughly prosperous and successful man.

The one drop of bitterness in their cup is the absence of children. No little feet have come to patter up and down the wide staircase of that roomy house in Russell-square, no little voices re-echo along the passages and in the lofty rooms. But Angela's heart is perhaps only the more ready to bestow its tenderness upon the many who come to her for help—the weak, the sickly, the sinful and the weary, for whom she spends herself and is not spent in vain.

* * * * *

Little more than two years after Brian's marriage, Mrs. Luttrell died. She died with her hand fast clasped in that of the man who had been indeed a son to her, she died with his name upon her lips. And when she was laid to rest beside her husband and her eldest son, Brian and Elizabeth were free to carry out a project which had been for some time very near their hearts. They went together to San Stefano.

It was then that Elizabeth first heard the whole story of her husband's sojourn at the monastery. She had never known more than the bare facts before; and she listened with a new comprehension of his character, as he told her of the days of listless anguish spent after his illness at San Stefano, and of the hopelessness from which her own words and looks aroused him. He spoke much, also, of Dino and of Padre Cristoforo and the kindly monks: and in the sunny stillness of an early Italian morning they went to the churchyard to look for Dino's grave.

They would not have found it but for the help of a monk who chanced to be in the neighbourhood. He led them courteously to the spot. It was unmarked by any stone, but a wreath of flowers had been laid upon it that morning, and the grassy mound showed signs of constant care. Brian and Elizabeth stood silently beside it; they did not move until the monk addressed them. And then Brian saw that Father Cristoforo was standing at their side.

"He sleeps well," he said. "You need not mourn for him."

"Yes, he sleeps," answered Brian, a little bitterly. "But we have lost him."

"Do I not know that as well as you? Do I not grieve for him?" said the old man, with a deep sigh. "I have more reason to grieve than you. I have never yet told you how he died. Come with me and I will let you hear."

They followed him to the guest-room of the monastery, and there, whilst they waited for him to speak, he threw back his cowl and fixed his eyes on Elizabeth's fair face.

"It was for your sake," he said, "for your sake, in part, that Dino left his duty to the Church undone. It was your face, signora, that came, as he told me, between him and his prayers. I am glad that I have seen you before I die."

He spoke mournfully, yet meditatively—more as if he was talking to himself than to her. Elizabeth shrank back a little, and Brian uttered a quick exclamation.

"Her face?" he said. "Father, what does this mean?"

The monk gave a start, and seemed to rouse himself from a dream.

"Pardon me," he said, gently; "I am growing an old man, and I have had much to bear. I spoke without thought. Let me tell you the story of Dino's death."

As far as he knew it, as far as he guessed it, he told the story. And when Brian uttered some strong ejaculation of anger and grief at its details, Father Cristoforo bowed his head upon his breast, folded his hands, and sighed.

"I was wrong," he said. "You do well to rebuke me, my son; for I was wrong."

"You were hard, you were cruel," said Brian, vehemently.

"Yes, I was hard; I was cruel. But I am punished. The light of my eyes has been taken from me. I have lost the son that I loved."

"You will see him again," said Elizabeth, softly. "You will go to him some day."

"The saints grant it. I fear that I may not be worthy. To him the high places will be given; to me—to me——But he will pray for me."

Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears as she looked at him. The old man's form was bent; his face was shrunken, his eyes were dim. As she rightly guessed, it was the sorrow of Dino's death that had aged him in this way.

Brian spoke next.

"Tell me," he said, "tell me for the last time, father, what you believe to have been the truth of the story. Did Vincenza change the children, or did she not?"

"My son," said the old monk, "a few months—nay, a few weeks ago, I said to myself that I would never answer that question. But life is slipping away from me; and I cannot leave the world with even the shadow of a lie upon my lips. When I sent Dino to England, I believed that Vincenza had done this thing. When Dino returned to us, I still believed that he was Mrs. Luttrell's son. But since our Dino's death, I have had a message—a solemn message—from the persons who saw Vincenza die. She had charged them with her last breath to tell me that the story was false—that the children were never changed at all. It was Mrs. Luttrell's delusion that suggested the plan to her. She hoped that she might make money by declaring that you were her son, and Dino, Mrs. Luttrell's. She swore on her death-bed that Dino was her child, and that it was Lippo Vasari who was buried in the churchyard of San Stefano."

"Which story are we to believe?" said Brian, almost doubtingly.

"The evidence is pretty evenly balanced," replied the Prior. "Believe the one that suits you best."

Brian did not answer; he stood for a moment with his head bent and his eyes fixed on the ground. "To think," he said at last, "of the misery that we have suffered through—a lie!" Then he looked up, and met Elizabeth's eyes. "You are right," he said, as if answering some unspoken comment, "I have no reason to complain. I found Dino—and I found you; a friend and a wife—I thank God for them both."

He took her hand in his, and his face was lit up with the look of love that was henceforth, as hitherto, to make the happiness of his life and hers.

And when they went forth from the monastery doors it seemed to them a good omen that the last words echoing in their ears were those of the old monk's farewell salutation:—

"Go in peace!"

THE END.



BOOKS TO READ.

CANADIAN COPYRIGHT SERIES.

15. Little Lord Fauntleroy. By Frances H. Burnett

16. The Frozen Pirate. By W. Clark Russell

17. Jo's Boys, and How They Turned Out. By Louisa M. Alcott

18. Saddle and Sabre. By Hawley Smart

19. A Prince of the Blood. By James Payn

20. An Algonquin Maiden. By G. Mercer Adam and A. Ethelwyn Wetherald

21. One Traveller Returns. By David Christie Murray and H. Hermann

22. Stained Pages; The Story of Anthony Grace. By G. Manville Fenn

23. Lieutenant Barnabas. By Frank Barrett

24. The Nun's Curse. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell

25. The Twin Soul. By Charles Mackay

26. One Maid's Mischief. By G. M. Fenn

27. A Modern Magician. By J. F. Molloy

28. A House of Tears. By E. Downey

29. Sara Crewe and Editha's Burglar. By Frances H. Burnett

30. The Abbey Murder. By Joseph Hatton

31. The Argonauts of North Liberty. By Bret Harte

32. Cradled in a Storm. By T. A. Sharp

33. A Woman's Face. By Florence Warden

34. Miracle Gold. By Richard Dowling

35. Molloy's Story. By Frank Merryfield

36. The Fortunes of Philippa Fairfax. By Frances H. Burnett

37. The Silent Shore, or The Mystery of St James' Park. By John Bloundelle-Burton

38. Eve. By S. Baring Gould

39. Doctor Glennie's Daughter. By B. L. Farjeon

40. The Case of Doctor Plemen. By Rene de Pont-Jest

41. Bewitching Iza. By Alexis Bouvier

42. A Wily Widow. By Alexis Bouvier

43. Diana Barrington. By Mrs. John Croker

44. The Ironmaster, or Love and Pride. By Georges Ohnet

45. A Mere Child. By L. B. Walford

46. Black Blood. By Geo. M. Fenn

47. The Dream. By Emile Zola

48. A Strange Message. By Dora Russell



* * * * *



Transcriber's note:

The original book does not have a Table of Contents. One was added for the reader's convenience.

THE END