of God, with its pains and its agonies and its yearning and its love, becomes the cruellest of all sorry jests concocted by the omnipotent power of a mind infinitely brutal and cynical, who tortures the puppets He has created with unutterable anguish, or ravishes their souls with a joy as meaningless as dreams. Well she remembered Martin's cutting the circle on the pinetree, but what its significance was he had never told her. But now, five years after his death, he had told it, she could not doubt, to the brother who had no normal remembrance of him. There they were, the little pathetic tokens of his childish secrecy, a pencil, a piece of chocolate, a photograph, and, above all, the well-formed, upright handwriting identical with that of the message traced on the last page of Archie's unsent letter. How it happened, what was the strange mechanism that fashioned by material means this mysterious communication between the living and the dead she had no idea, but of its having happened she had no doubt.
She turned these relics over, she kissed the handwriting so long buried, and tears of tender amazement rose in her eyes.
"Oh Archie, my darling," she said. "You lucky boy!"
"Aren't I?" said Archie. "But does Martin never write to you?"
"No, dear; I suppose he cannot."
"And why is he so particularly here?" demanded Archie.
She paused a moment.
"He died here," she said.
"In this house?" asked he. "Which room?"
"Blessington's."
Archie gave a great sigh.
"Oh, mummy, do let me have that room instead of mine!" he said.
