Trixy opened and read it. It was from Inez Catheron, and announced the death of her aunt, the Lady Helena Powyss.
* * * * *
"Her end was perfect peace," said the letter; "and in her will, she has left her large fortune divided equally between you and me. If possible it would be well for you to return to England as speedily as may be. If wealth can make you happy—and I hope at least it will aid—my dearest Edith, you will have it. For me, I join a charitable Sisterhood here in London, and will try to devote the remainder of my life to the relief of my suffering and poor fellow-creatures. As to the rest, if you care at all to know, my brother reigns at Catheron Royals now! He is, in all respects, a changed man, and will not, I think, be an unworthy successor of him who is gone. His wife and children are all that can be desired.
"Farewell, my dear cousin. When you return to London come to the enclosed address, and see me. No one will welcome you more gladly than,
"INEZ CATHERON."
* * * * *
So another large fortune had been left Edith—she was rich now beyond her wildest dreams. Rich! And yonder she lay, and all the gold of earth, powerless to add a second to her life. What a satire it seemed. Youth, beauty, and boundless wealth were hers and all were vain—vain!
The seventh night brought the crisis.
"This can hold out no longer," the physician said; "before morning we will know the end, whether it is to be life or death."
"Then—there is hope yet?" Trix breathed, with clasped hands.