[Sidenote: Constance North]

Twenty-one years ago to-day, Constance North had, intentionally, taken
an overdose of laudanum. She had left a note to her husband begging him
to forgive her, and thanking him for all his kindness to her during the
three years they had lived together. She had also written a note to
Miriam, asking her to look after the blind man and to be a mother to
Barbara. Enclosed were two other letters, sealed with wax. One was
addressed "To My Daughter, Barbara. To be opened on her twenty-second
birthday." Miriam had both the letters safely put away. It was not time
for Barbara to have hers and she had never delivered the other to the
person to whom it was addressed--so often does the arrogant power of the
living deny the holiest wishes of the dead.

The whole scene came vividly back to Miriam--the late afternoon sun
streaming in glory from the far hills into Constance North's dainty
sitting-room, upstairs; the golden-haired woman, in the full splendour
of her youth and beauty, lying upon the couch asleep, with a smile of
heavenly peace upon her lips; the blind man's hands straying over her as
she lay there, with his tears falling upon her face, and blue-eyed
Barbara, cooing and laughing in her own little bed in the next room.

[Sidenote: Years of Torture]

Miriam had found the notes on the dressing-table, and had lied. She had
said there were but two when, in reality, there were four. Two had been
read and destroyed; the other two, with unbroken seals, were waiting to
be read. She was keeping the one for Barbara; the other had tortured her
through all of the twenty years.