her physical powers diminish her mental faculties seem to
increase. The past is not wholly a blank to her now; she remembers
distinctly much that has gone by, but of nothing does she talk so
constantly as of Miggie, asking every hour if I've sent for you--
how long before you'll come; and if you'll stay until she's dead.
I think your coming will prolong her life; and you will never
regret it, I am sure. Mr. Russell will be your escort, as he will
return in three weeks."

To this note two postscripts were appended--the first in a
girlish, uneven hand, was redolent of the boy Arthur's "Florida
rose."

"Miggie, precious Miggie--come to Sunnybank; come to Nina. She is
waiting for you. She wants you here--wants to lay her poor, empty
head, where the bad pain used to be, on your soft, nice bosom--to
shut her eyes and know it is your breath she feels--your sweet,
fragrant breath, and not Arthur's, brim full of cigar smoke. Do
come, Miggie, won't you? There's a heap of things I want to fix
before I die, and I am dying, Miggie. I see it in my hands, so
poor and thin, not one bit like they used to be, and I see it,
too, in Arthur's actions. Dear Arthur boy! He is so good to me--
carries me every morning to the window, and holds me in his lap
while I look out into the garden where we used to play, you and I.
I think it was you, but my brain gets so twisted, and I know the
real Miggie is out under the magnolias, for it says so on the
stone, but I can't help thinking you are she. Arthur has a new
name for me, a real nice name, too. He took it from a book, he
says--about just such a wee little girl as I am. 'Child-wife,'
that's what he calls me, and he strokes my hair so nice. I'm