"This morning when—when I waked and saw her on the couch, I wondered why she hadn't come to bed; but I dropped a shawl over her and tiptoed out. It wasn't until half-past eight that I tried—oh, I can't! I can't! Don't ask me!"
Kitty's voice was lost in hysterical chokings.
Dr. Upton handed me Helen's visiting card. Below the name was scrawled: "P. P. C."
"It was found pinned to Miss Reid's bedspread," he said; "is that Miss Winship's handwriting?"
"Yes," I answered. The shaky letters were unrecognisable.
"Don't you see! To say farewell," wailed Kitty. "She's done it a hundred times when she started for school before I was up. Barnard is so far. Oh, I can't bear it! How could you, Helen?"
"Don't, Kitty," said Cadge, drawing her from the room.
The doctor motioned me to a table behind the screen of which Kitty had spoken. There Helen had sat, there lay her writing case, the key sealed in an envelope addressed to me. Picking up a slip of paper torn from a letter pad, he asked:—
"Is this also Miss Winship's writing?"
He held it out to me and I read the single line:—