"And remember this—dead though I am—I love you still—you—and my little lame baby—who needs me so—and whom—I must leave—because I am not strong—enough to stay. Through life—and in death—and eternally yours—Constance."
There was a tense, unbearable silence. Miriam moistened her parched lips and chafed her cold hands. "At last," she thought. "At last."
The Assurance
"She died loving me," said Ambrose North, in a shrill whisper. His eyes were closed again, for the strain had hurt—terribly. Dimly, he remembered the other letter. This was not the same, but the other had been to Barbara, and not to him. He did not stop to wonder how it came to be in his pocket. It sufficed that some Angel of God, working through devious ways and long years, had given him at last, face to face, the assurance he had hungered for since the day Constance died.
In a blinding instant, Miriam remembered that no names had been mentioned in the letter. He had made a mistake—but she could set him right. Constance should not triumph again, even in an hour like this.
Ambrose North turned back into the shadow, fearing to face the window. The woman cowering in the corner advanced steadily to meet him. He saw her, vaguely, when his eyes became accustomed to the change of lights.
"Miriam!" he cried, transfigured by joy. "She died loving me! I have it here. It was only because she was not strong—she was ill, and she never let us know." He held forth the letter with a shaking hand.
"She—" began Miriam.
"She died loving me!" he cried. "Oh, Miriam, can you not see? I have it here." His voice rang through the house like some far silver bugle chanting triumph over a field of the slain. "She died loving me!"