"'Your letter was not forwarded to me for ten days after I left Florence. I start to-morrow for England, and God grant the passes may not be snowed up; I hope to reach you as soon almost as this does; keep up your spirits; tell the Colonel I know his wishes, I fully understand his anxiety for your writing. The courier waits for my letter. God bless you—Yours in haste and much affliction.—G. Desmond.'"
"What is the date?" asked the Colonel, feebly.
"It has none, except the place; she evidently writes in the greatest haste."
"Look at the cover."
"It is so rubbed and soiled I can make nothing out, but a 'Fir' and 'Marzo.'"
"She will be here to-morrow," said the Colonel, with sudden decision. "My God, I thank thee!" he murmured. "Kate, my love, I feel exhausted, some wine."
She flew to get it, and, after taking a little, he leaned back, drowsily, she settled the cushions for his head, and knelt down to feel if his feet were cold; he stretched out his hand feebly, and laid it on her head; the old hound, whom they had not noticed, drew closer, and licked the hand that had so often caressed him.
"God bless you darling, from the hour of your birth, you have been an unalloyed blessing to me."
Kate rose, and kissed him fondly—
"Go to sleep, dearest grandpapa."