There was
writing on the paper, as he had expected, and he read it, bent low
beside the lamp. The date was nearly eighteen years old. The lines
were faint. The words were these:
MY HUSBAND,--God can never undo what I have done. I have dragged
myself back, repentant, loving you more than I have ever loved you
in my life, to leave our little girl with you. She is your
daughter, and mine. She was born on the eighth day of September,
the seventh month after I left Fort o' God, She is yours, and so I
bring her back to you, with the prayer that she will help to fill
the true and noble heart that I have broken. I cannot ask your
forgiveness, for I do not deserve it. I cannot let you see me, for
I should kill myself at your feet. I have lived this long only for
the baby. I will leave her where you cannot fail to find her, and
by the time you have read this I will have answered for my sin--
my madness, if you can have charity regard it so. And if God is
kind I will hover about you always, and you will know that in
death the old sweetheart, and the mother, has found what she could
never again hope for in life.
YOUR WIFE.
Philip rose slowly erect and gazed down into the still, tranquil
face of Pierre, the half-breed.
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