for support. "'Sh! She is asleep." Edith waited to hear no more. Something in the woman's face and manner filled her with a terrible dread. She pushed by her, entered the room, and glided swiftly but noiselessly to the bed, looked down upon the scarcely breathing figure lying there. It was with difficulty that she repressed a shriek of agony at what she saw, for the shadow of death was unmistakably settling over the beloved face.

The invalid stirred slightly upon her pillow as Edith came to her side and bent over her. "My darling," she murmured weakly, as her white lids fluttered open, and she bent a look full of love upon the fair face above her, "I--am going--" "No, no, mamma!" whispered the almost heart-broken girl, but struggling mightily with her agony and to preserve calmness lest she excite the invalid.
The sight of this unnerved her again, and, with a moan of pain, she sank upon her knees and bowed her head upon it. But the fountain of her tears had been so exhausted that she could not weep; and, finally becoming somewhat composed, she took the beautiful box out into the room and sat down near a light to examine its contents.

"Mamma evidently wanted these letters destroyed," she murmured, as she threw back the cover. "I will do as she wished, but I will first look them over, to be sure there is nothing of value among them."

She set about her task at once and found that they were mostly missives from intimate friends, with quite a number written by herself to her mother, while she was away at boarding-school. All these she burned after glancing casually at them. Nothing then remained in the box but a small package of six or eight time-yellowed epistles bound together with a blue ribbon.

"What peculiar writing!" Edith observed, as she separated one from the others and examined the superscription upon the envelope. "Why, it is postmarked Rome, Italy, away back in 18--, and addressed to mamma in London! That must have been when she was on her wedding tour!"

Her curiosity was aroused, and, drawing the closely-written sheet from its enclosure, she began to read it. It was also dated from Rome, and the girl was soon deeply immersed in a story of intense and romantic interest.

She readily understood that the letter had been written by a dear friend of Mrs. Allandale's youth--one who had been both school and roommate, and who unreservedly confided all her secrets and experiences to her bosom companion. And yet, it was strange, Edith thought, that she had never heard 

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