"I wish I could. I am tired of this life—tired of living here with Mrs. Lynne and Serena. I shall be glad to go out into the world and earn my own living. Don't look so horrified, daddy, darling. And by the way, I nearly forgot my errand here to you. I have a letter for you."
She drew the letter from her pocket and laid it in his hand.
At sight of the superscription his face grew pale as death. Breaking the seal with a trembling hand, he drew forth two inclosures—two separate letters.
"Go, my dear," he said, gently; "it is late, and you must retire now. Besides, I would rather be alone. Kiss me good-night, Beatrix, my little comfort."
She stooped, and putting her white arms about his neck, laid her warm, red lips upon his.
"Good-night, papa, darling," she whispered.
At the door of the room she paused and looked back. He was sitting in a dejected attitude, his white head resting upon one hand; the other held the letters.
She went slowly and thoughtfully upstairs back to her own room, and, retiring, was soon sound asleep.
She was aroused from slumber by a shrill shriek which resounded through the silent house. Starting to her feet, Beatrix threw on a loose wrapper, and thrusting her bare feet into a pair of slippers, left the room and flew swiftly down-stairs. She made her way instinctively to Doctor Lynne's room. He was seated in his arm-chair before the fire, just as she had left him, while his wife, whose cry of horror had aroused the house, stood near, pale and terrified. One of the letters which he had received had been destroyed by fire—only a heap of smoke-blackened fragments upon the hearth remained to tell the tale; but one hand clutched the other letter in a convulsive grasp, as he sat there, white, and still, and dead. Death had stolen in like a thief in the night, and he was gone forever.
The letter which that cold, stiff hand clutched tenaciously, was found to contain these words: