the scar on his hand, before you say the words that make you his
miserable wife. I don't give you this warning on my account, but
on yours. I have an interest in your well-being that will live as
long as I draw breath. Your mother's daughter has a tender place
in my heart--for your mother was my first, my best, my only
friend."


There the extraordinary letter ended, without signature of any
sort.

The handwriting afforded no prospect of a clue. It was traced on
ruled lines, in the cramped, conventional, copy-book character
technically termed "small hand." It was feeble and faint, and
defaced by blots, but had otherwise nothing to distinguish it.

"That is not an illiterate letter," said Miss Halcombe, "and at
the same time, it is surely too incoherent to be the letter of an
educated person in the higher ranks of life. The reference to the
bridal dress and veil, and other little expressions, seem to point
to it as the production of some woman. What do you think, Mr.
Hartright?"

"I think so too. It seems to me to be not only the letter of a
woman, but of a woman whose mind must be----"

"Deranged?" suggested Miss Halcombe. "It struck me in that light
too."

I did not answer. While I was speaking, my eyes rested on the