Chapter 18 - Page 2

Dolly, when she came to the couch with them. "You will have to sit down by me and hold some of them. One can write a great many letters in seven years."

The wise one sat down, obediently holding the box upon her knee. There were so many letters in it that it was quite heavy.

"I am going to look them over and tie them in packages, according to their dates," said Dolly. "He will like to have them when he comes back."

It would not have been natural for her to preserve her calmness all through the performance of her task. Her first glance at the first letter brought the tears, and she cried quietly as she passed from one to the other. They were such tender, impetuous letters. The very headings--"My Darling," "My pretty Darling," "My own sweetest Life"--impassioned, youthful-sounding, and Grif-like, cut her to the heart. Ah! how terrible it would be for him to see them again, as he would see them! She was pitying him far more than she was pitying herself.

It was a work not soon over, but she finished it at length. The packets were assorted and tied with new ribbon, and she lay down for a few minutes to rest.

"You will give them to him, Aimée?" she said. "I think he will come some day; but if he does not, you must keep them yourself. I should not like people to read them--afterwards. Love-letters won't stand being read by strangers. I have often laughed and told him ours would n't. I am going to write a last one, however, this afternoon. You are to give it him, with the 'dead' letter--but they are all dead letters, are they not?"

"Dolly," said Aimée, with a desperate effort, "you speak as if you were sure you were--going."

There was a silence, and then a soft, low, tremulous laugh,--the merest echo of a laugh. Despite her long suffering Dolly was Dolly yet. She would not let them mourn over her.

"Going," she said, "well--I think I am. Yes," half reflectively, "I think I must be. It cannot mean anything else,--this feeling, can it? It was a long time before I quite believed it myself, Aimée, but now I should be obliged to believe it if I did not wish to."

"And do you wish to, now?"

That little silence again, and then--

"I should like to see Grif,--I want Grif,--that is all."

She managed to write her last love-letter after this, and to direct it and tie it with the letter which had returned to her,--the "dead" letter. But the effort seemed to tire her very much, and when all was done and her restless excitement had died out, she looked less like herself than ever. She could talk no more, and was so weak and prostrate that Aimée was alarmed into summoning Miss MacDowlas.

But Miss MacDowlas could only shake her head. "We cannot