to the grave of her lost parent; and the more she
thought of this, the more it soothed her. And
finally she began to think over it with a soft
pleasure and anticipation.

On this night, the letters were there before
her, and at last, by a sort of uncontrollable
impulse, she made up her mind to go through
them. The very look of the first seemed to
bring the little Italian town like a picture. She
saw the cool evening after the sultry day, the
retired garden and the strangers arriving in
their chaise, and the poor outcast sitting there
lonely by himself. The first she opened was
a letter to herself: she kissed the faded characters.
It was in a trembling hand. It ran:

"Rose of Italy.
"Time, three o'clock in the morning.

"I leave these few lines, which I hope my
friend will take care of, and see that they be
given to my little girl Ada when she grows up,
and shall have come of age. I write knowing
well that I am doomed; but I would wish that
she should never know my miserable end until
then, as I would not wish her sweet childhood
to be troubled by any gloom. Tell her that her
father died of fever, plague, anything. Any
end will do for so unlucky and wretched a life
as mine has been.

"At this moment, my dear sweet Ada, you are
sleeping in your little cot, not thinking of what
is coming on your wretched father. Perhaps it
is all for the best, and I may as well end this
way as another. If I was to live longer, I
should only bring disgrace on you, my child, and
rob you of the little fortune that is left. Thank
God, I have not touched that, though it has
cost me some hard struggles and temptations.
It was a great agony to part with you, and if I
had stayed by you, my sweet child, all this would
never have happened. God, God bless you, if
such a being as I am may invoke a blessing on
so pure a creature."

Her tears fell fast as she read. There were
others, one to his friend Bateman. It began:

"I feel I am a doomed man. That wicked
truculent savage is determined to have my blood,
and he has worked that youth up to fury. And
yet as I sit here, for my last night, I declare to
you, guilty as I have been all my life, I am
innocent of this; I never spoke to that lady in
my life. The truth is, I won some money from
them at the tables, and the elder has been in a
fury ever since. The young man is, I think,
half mad with rage and jealousy, and they have
followed me on here, hunting me like a dog or
a hare. I confess to you I was anxious to
avoid them, not from fear, as they imagine, but
because I have a presentiment that as they were
determined to have my blood, I knew they
would succeed. I did fly in the night, and now
they have overtaken me, and I feel my
death-warrant. But O, Bateman, my poor sweet
little girl. What is to become of her? I have
not a friend in the world; they have all left me
because they think I have disgraced them. And
yet I have only been unfortunate. O, what
is to become of her, unless you, and after you
other friends, look to her? That is what
disturbs me in these last moments. Otherwise I
should be resigned, and let those two bloodhounds
have my life any way they pleased. I do not
expect fair play, for I hear they have sworn to
have my life, and they are welcome to it; for
the youth fancies my death will be the best news
he can take back and recommend himself.

"And now one more thing, Bateman. When
the time comes for my sweet Ada knowing this
miserable story, see that she learns the true
state of things; let her not associate any vile
history of disgrace and shame with her father's
name. I here protest that all my life I have
been more sinned against than sinning; that I
have been the victim of enemies and of my
own weakness; and that now in this last act
I am helpless and powerless, and driven to
what I cannot avoid. Heaven, I hope, will
accept it as a little expiation for errors."

She wept long in silence over this paper.
Then she turned to another which was in a
different hand. This was dated from a Paris hotel,
and after some months. It ran:

"In obedience to the wishes of my poor
friend Millwood, I now set down here for his
daughter to read, when she comes of age, what
happened on that morning.

"I had learned from the innkeeper that he had
arrived there much exhausted about noon of
that day, and that about eight o'clock the same
evening a chaise had come up with two gentlemen,
who had followed him into the garden,
where a dreadful scene had taken place. The
two were very wild and excited, and one had
even threatened to shoot him on the spot. I
arrived myself shortly after, and was astonished
to find an old friend in such a condition. Then
he told me his position—that these two
desperate men had entangled him in this quarrel
about a Frenchwoman, whom he had scarcely
spoken to in his life, whose advances, indeed,
he had rejected, and who had set the younger
of the two to avenge the slight.

"The two were literally beside themselves with
fury; the younger, in a sort of fever with rage
and dissipation; the elder, from some old grudge
about money against Millwood. They were
disappointed at his finding a friend there, for I
think they hoped to have had their victim all to
themselves, with no one to interfere. But I
took a very firm tone with them.

"At five in the morning they met on the
seashore. I had great difficulties in keeping up
the spirits of my friend, who continued saying
that he was doomed. His last words were,
' Don't forget my poor little Ada;' and his
last act was to hand me the enclosed letter for
her. The two were very eager to begin, and it
was agreed that they should throw for the first
fire. We gained it. 'Courage,' I whispered to
him; 'this is a great chance for us. On this
depends everything, so be steady.' But his hand
shook. 'I see my poor little girl,' he said,