‘Dear Madam,—As the clergyman who attended your sister, Mary Hutchinson, during her last moments, and as her friend and confidant during the few months she resided in this neighbourhood, it is my sad duty to inform you that she died on Saturday evening last. She was confined of a still-born child on the previous Tuesday, was very ill, having been long previously in a weakly condition, but rallied, and the doctor had great hopes, when a change happened for the worse, and I was sent for.
‘My wife had helped to nurse her through her illness; she was seldom absent from her side. The sad and singular story of your sister was well known to us. She took lodgings in this quiet place about five months since, and speedily attracted my attention by her frequent attendance at church, by her devotional behaviour during the services, and by her isolation, that seemed strange in one so young and beautiful. My wife and I found out where she lodged, and called. Our relations quickly grew friendly and ripened into intimacy. She told us her story, the story of your own strange and dreadful experiences, imploring our secrecy, and assuring us that nothing could ever prevail on her to make her whereabouts known to you and her husband. We admired the nobility of her resolution, nor was it possible for us to counsel her otherwise than as her own pure heart dictated. Indeed, dear madam, we had nothing to oppose to her own views. She was right. God has now taken her to Himself, and be satisfied that she is happy, for surely she was of those who are tried by the Lord in this world only that they shall enter more surely as partakers of the glory of God and the life everlasting of His Kingdom.
‘I propose that the funeral shall take place on Tuesday, if by that date you and Mr. Campbell can conveniently reach this place. Almost her last thoughts were with you and your husband and your two children, and she desired me to send you her blessing, to tell you that she was without pain, that the peace of God was upon her spirit, and that she desired rest. One of the last wishes she expressed was that her money should be divided between and settled upon your two children.
‘I am, dear madam,
‘Sincerely yours,
‘John F. Truscott.
‘P.S.—I reopen this letter after an interval of a week, to express my deep regret that owing to an oversight on the part of one of my servants it was not posted when written. It was placed upon the mantelpiece and the servant was directed to post it, but, by some means I am unable to account for, it got hidden behind a large clock that stands upon my mantelpiece. I beg your forgiveness. I am bitterly grieved by this act of neglect. The remains of your dear sister were buried on Wednesday. I trust this letter may safely reach your hands, and should you or Mr. Campbell be unable to immediately visit us I shall be happy to attend to any requests you may have to make.’
I read this letter aloud with tearless eyes to the last syllable of it, then remained gazing at it as though I had been turned to stone, and thus I sat, and nothing broke the silence in that room for many minutes but the tick of the clock or the fall of an ember in the grate.
Then, lifting up my eyes and looking at Mrs. Lee, I said, ‘Mary is dead!’
‘She is dead,’ said Mrs. Lee, beginning to weep, ‘and so is Alice, and so is Edith, and how much happier are they than we!’
‘She is dead,’ I cried, ‘my sister is dead!’ and I rose and stepped about the room murmuring to myself, ‘She is dead—-and I was not there to attend upon her—-and whilst she lay dying I might have been playing with my children and not thinking of her—-’And then, seeing Mrs. Lee weeping, the sight of her tears loosened mine, and I flung myself upon my knees at her side and buried my face in her lap.
I felt my dear friend’s soft hand upon my head, and I heard her whisper in my ear, ‘Agnes, it is at such a moment as this that you need your husband’s love and sympathy.’