"You will be glad to hear," I began, "that time and change are doing their good work." Miss Dunross wrote the words, and paused in anticipation of the next sentence. The light faded and faded; the room grew darker and darker. I went on.
"I hope I shall cause you no more anxiety, my dear mother, on the subject of Mrs. Van Brandt." In the deep silence I could hear the pen of my secretary traveling steadily over the paper while it wrote those words.
"Have you written?" I asked, as the sound of the pen ceased.
"I have written," she answered, in her customary quiet tones. I went on again with my letter.
"The days pass now, and I seldom or never think of her; I hope I am resigned at last to the loss of Mrs. Van Brandt." As I reached the end of the sentence, I heard a faint cry from Miss Dunross. Looking instantly toward her, I could just see, in the deepening darkness, t hat her head had fallen on the back of the chair. My first impulse was, of course, to rise and go to her. I had barely got to my feet, when some indescribable dread paralyzed me on the instant. Supporting myself against the chimney-piece, I stood perfectly incapable of advancing a step. The effort to speak was the one effort that I could make.
"Are you ill?" I asked. She was hardly able to answer me; speaking in a whisper, without raising her head.
"I am frightened," she said.
"What has frightened you?" I heard her shudder in the darkness. Instead of answering me, she whispered to herself: "What am I to say to him?"
"Tell me what has frightened you?" I repeated. "You know you may trust me with the truth." She rallied her sinking strength. She answered in these strange words:
"Something has come between me and the letter that I am writing for you."
"What is it?"
"I can't tell you."
"Can you see it?"
"No."
"Can you feel it?"
"Yes!"
"What is it like?"
"Like a breath of cold air between me and the letter."
"Has the window come open?"
"The window is close shut."
"And the door?"
