"From Mrs. Frampton?" said William.

William Chester broke the seal hurriedly,
and read. " This is strange," said he, as soon
as he had finished. This letter is in an
unknown hand, bidding me come to London
immediately; and although it does not mention
Annie, I do not doubt that it relates to her.
I will begone this night."

"Let us go together," said the old man.

"No," he replied; " the letter bids me
come alone. I will write to you to-morrow.
Good-bye, Mary. Let us hope yet for better
news." The old man went with him to the
water-side, and, unmooring the boat, pulled
down the river with him as far as Teddington.
They found a cart standing at an inn-
door, whose owner was going to Brentford,
where he promised to convey him in time for
a coach passing through there to London.

It was three o'clock, and quite dark, when
he arrived at his destination. He inquired of
the watchman for the quarter to which he
was directed, and found that it was at some
distance, in the suburbs; and he started again
on foot, at a quick pace. He inquired several
times of the watch as he pursued his way,
running and walking alternately, thinking of
his sojourn in London the year before, when
he passed in like manner through deserted
streets, and remembering, as he drew nearer,
that he had frequently gone that way, in his
hopeless search. At length he arrived at the
street, and looking up at the numbers by the
light of the lamps, found the house that he
sought. It was a small white house, fronting
a row of trees, which had been spared by the
builder, there being no other house on the
opposite side of the way. At the upper
window a faint light was burning; and he
knocked gently. A woman opened the door,
to whom he told his business; and she bade
him enter.

"You come just in time to see her, poor
thing," said she, showing him into a parlour,
and speaking in a whisper, as she shut the
door. " The doctor does not know, from day
to day, how many hours she may live."

"Why was I not sent for before?" said he.

"Ah! " said the woman, " that is what I
have said fifty times. She is a very strange
young woman, sir! She has lived here twelve
months, and never did we discover who her
friends were, till the other day. She
overheard the doctor say how bad she was, and
that she couldn't live; and then she begged
that some one would write. Poor thing!
She's as steady and industrious as young
woman could be; but she was always very
secret in her ways."

"Let me see her," said he.

The woman took the candle, and bidding
him follow her, led the way up-stairs. They
entered a small room, lit only by a feeble
light, that floated in a goblet half-filled with
oil and water. The faint smell of the sick-
chamber struck him as he entered. A small
fire was burning in the grate. The floor was
bare, and the room, besides the bedstead,
contained nothing but a table and two chairs,
with a lace-maker's frame against the wall.
Drawing aside the curtains, he held the candle
in his hand, and looked down at the sleeper.
It was Annie. He had no doubt of that,
though none in that house had spoken of her
by her right name, and though her features
were so changed, that he might well have
doubted. Hollow-eyed, sharp-boned, pale;
her long black hair lying in disorder half over
her face; her parched lips muttering to her
dream: she was still that Annie whom he
knew in childhood, and for whom he had
suffered pain and sorrow so long.

"I will wait here till she wakes," said he.
The old woman nodded and went out. For
several hours he remained watching her. She
continued to mutter aloud, though her words
were indistinct. She moved restlessly in her
bed, every moment changing her position;
and once, stretching forth her hand, she let it
fall again, as if it were lifeless, outside the
bed-clothes. He took it up, softly, and looking
at it by the candle-light, held 'the long, thin
fingers betwixt both his hands, and chafed
them, staring vacantly at the candle, till it
glimmered through his tears. Then, turning,
he saw that her eyes were wide open. She
was looking at him, calmly, as if not surprised
to find him there.

"I knew that you would come," she said,
"though I have waited long."

"Oh, Annie!" he exclaimed, "why did
you not send for me before?"

"No, no," said she; " I had much to tell
you; but the time was not yet come; and
yet, since I have known that there was no
hope, how I have prayed to live till now, and
every night begged for another day. My
father?"

"Your father is still living. I left him
yesterday, with Mary, at the Island."

"God be praised! I feared that he was
dead. I will tell you all," she continued, " and
you must forgive me, and believe me; for I
know that I am going to die, and dare not
speak an untruth."

"I have always forgiven you, Annie," he
replied; " and though, till now, I thought
that you had fallen, I knew that you were
young and ignorant of life, and, on my own
account, I have never reproached you."

"That night, upon the Island, when I
promised to love you," replied Annie, " I spoke
sincerely. I declare before God, I had no
thought of deceiving you; nor did I dream of
meeting with another, whose power could
lead me to forget all, and to plunge into
sorrow all those who, next to him, were
dearest to me in the world. I need not tell
you now his name—the past is passed. We
met again, and again; and, by degrees, a feeling
grew upon me that I could not master.
Forgive me, if my story pains you, for I must
tell you this."

"Go on," said he. " I see it all now, Annie."