to you?  You must come home again for a season.  Even Julia wishes it, though she cannot stay in the same house with you, and will go to her own with her friend Kate Daltrey.  Your father cried like a child.  He takes it more to heart than I should have expected.  Yet there is no immediate danger; she may live for some months yet.  My poor Martin, you will have a mother only a few months longer.  Three weeks ago she and I went to Sark, at her own urgent wish, to see your Olivia.  I did not then know why.  She had a great longing to see the unfortunate girl who had been the cause of so much sorrow to us all, but especially to her, for she has pined sorely after you.  We did not find her in Tardif’s house, but Suzanne directed us to the little graveyard half a mile away.  We followed her there, and recognized her, of course, at the first glance.  She is a charming creature, that I allow, though I wish none of us had ever seen her.  Your mother told her who she was, and the sweetest flush and smile came across her face!  They sat down side by side on one of the graves, and I strolled away, so I do not know what they said to one another.  Olivia walked down with us to the Havre Gosselin, and your mother held her in her arms and kissed her tenderly.  Even I could not help kissing her.

“Now I understand why your mother longed to see Olivia.  She knew then—­she has known for months—­that her days are numbered.  When she was in London last November, she saw the most skilful physicians, and they all agreed that her disease was incurable and fatal.  Why did she conceal it from you?  Ah, Martin, you must know a woman’s heart, a mother’s heart, before you can comprehend that.  Your father knew, but no one else.  What a martyrdom of silent agony she has passed through!  She has a clear calculation, based upon the opinion of the medical men, as to how long she might have lived had her mind been kept calm and happy.  How far that has not been the case we all know too well.

“If your marriage with Julia had taken place, you would now have been on your way home, not to be parted from her again till the final separation.  We all ask you to return to Guernsey, and devote a few more weeks to one who has loved you so passionately and fondly.  Even Julia asks it.  Her resentment gives way before this terrible sorrow.  We have not told your mother what we are about to do, lest any thing should prevent your return.  She is as patient and gentle as a lamb, and is ready with a quiet smile for every one.  O Martin, what a loss she will be to us all!  My heart is bleeding for you.

“Do not come before you have answered this letter, that we may prepare her for your return.  Write by the next boat, and come by the one after.  Julia will have to move down to the new house, and that will be excitement enough for one day.

     “Good-by, my dearest Martin.  I have forgiven every thing; so
     will all our friends as soon as they know this dreadful
     secret.