she went out, and I heard by the frou-frou of her skirts that she was ascending the stairs.
After five minutes of breathless anxiety she rejoined me, and handing me the letter to read said —
"It is not in her handwriting — I wonder why?"
The paper was of foreign make, with blue lines ruled in squares. Written in a hand that was evidently foreign, for the mistakes in orthography were many, was the following curious communication —
"My dear Lydia,
"Perhaps you may never get this letter — the last I shall ever be able to send to you. Indeed, I run great risks in sending it. Ah! you do not know the awful disaster that has happened to me, all the terrors and the tortures I endure. But no one can assist me, and I am now looking forward to the time when it will all be over. Do you recollect our old peaceful days in the garden at Chichester? I think of them always, always, and compare that sweet peace of the past with my own terrible sufferings to-day. Ah, how I wish I might see you once again; how that I might feel your hand upon my brow, and hear your words of hope and encouragement! But happiness is now debarred from me, and I am only sinking to the grave under this slow torture of body and of soul.
"This will pass through many hands before it reaches the post. If however, it ever does get despatched and you receive it, will you do me one last favour — a favour to an unfortunate girl who is
