"Well, that is pretty much all, I guess; and I'm tired now. Look out the rest of them when you have time, and you'll know what to burn.

There is nothing there that Jacob or Clifton has anything to do with. I often have been sorry that I didn't just take old Mr Fleming's note, instead of the mortgage. It might have saved some hard feelings.

There, that's all. I feel better, I'll try and sleep again."

They sat beside him till he fell asleep, and then they moved into the other room, Elizabeth carrying the bag with her.

"Cousin Lizzie," said Betsey, "wait a minute. I don't more than half believe it's lawful to burn these notes and things."

"It is quite lawful. My father told me to burn them."

"But wait. Do you know that folks are beginning to say that your brother Jacob is hard up, that he is pressed for money?"

"Yes, he told me so himself. He said the difficulty was only temporary, and that--that I should hear more about it soon."

"They say it's pretty bad, and you know everything has been mixed up in the business, and your share might have to go with the rest. There is a good deal represented by the papers you have in your hands, cousin."

"I see what you mean. All the more this must be made safe."

She rose, and going toward the hearth, dropped the papers one by one into the fire.

"Now, Cousin Betsey, that is done with. Forget all about it. We will never speak of this again."

Elizabeth took the old bag to carry it away. Several papers fell from the other side as she moved it. She looked at each one as she put it in the bag again, reading aloud what was written on each. One was a sealed letter, thick and folded as letters used to be before envelopes were in use. It was addressed to her father in very beautiful handwriting which she had seen somewhere before. She held it before her cousin that she might see it.

"It is Hughie Fleming's writing! I know it well," said Betsey.

"It looks as if it had never been opened," Elizabeth said, turning it over and over in her hand. "How strange! My father must surely have read it?"

"Who knows? It is possible he never did."

"I wonder if I should keep it and speak to him about it?"

Betsey shook her head.

"It isn't likely he'd remember it, and it might trouble him. It is about that old trouble likely."

"Perhaps I should drop it into the embers?"

"It is hard to say. I should hate to know from it anything that would make me think less of poor Hugh."

"But it may be quite different. Ought I to open it? My father gave all the papers to me to examine. I wonder if I should open it, cousin?"

Miss Betsey took the letter in her hand and looked at it for a minute or two.

"It looks like a message from the dead," said she.

"Open it, cousin. You remember him and his trouble better than I can.

Open it, and if there is nothing in it that his friends would be glad to know, you shall burn it without a word."

Betsey still hesitated.

"It comes from the dead," said she, but she opened it at last, cutting round the large seal with a pair of scissors. But their hesitation as to what they ought to do was not over. There was an inclosure addressed to David Fleming, at which Betsey looked as doubtfully as ever, and then she gave it to Elizabeth. There were only a few words in the first letter:

"Honoured Sir:--I write to confess the sin I sinned against you, though you must know it already. I ask your forgiveness, and I send this money as the first payment of what I owe you, and if I live, full rest.i.tution shall be made. If my father will read a letter of mine, will you take the trouble to give him the lines I send with this?"

And then was signed the name of Hugh Fleming. It was only a hint of the sad story they knew something of before. There was an American bank bill for a small sum, and the inclosure to his father, and that was all.

"Poor Hughie! poor dear, bonnie laddie!" said Betsey softly. "Can it be possible that your father never opened or read this? It was written within a week of the poor boy's death," added she, looking at the date on the letter.

"My father never could have opened it or Mr Fleming would have had this," said Elizabeth, holding up the inclosed note, "I wonder how it could have happened that it was overlooked."

She never knew, nor did any one. She tried next day to say something to her father about it, but she could not make him understand. He said nothing in reply that had any reference to the letter, or to poor Hugh, or to his father. It must have been, by some unhappy chance, overlooked and placed with other papers in the old saddle-bag, where it had lain all these years.

"And now what shall we do about this?" asked Elizabeth, still holding the other letter in her hand.

It was a single small leaf folded like a letter and one edge slipped in as though it was to have been sealed or fastened with a wafer. But it was open.

"I don't know, the least in the world," said Betsey, much moved. "It might hold a medicine for the old man over there, but it might also be poison."

"But since he wrote to my father of confession and rest.i.tution, we may hope that there is a confession in this also."

"Yes, there is something in that. But it was a great while ago now, and all the old misery would come back again. Not that he has ever forgotten it. And now I fear there is more trouble before him."

They were greatly at a loss what to do.

"If we could consult some one."

"It would not help much. As it is not sealed you might just look at it.

If there is comfort in it the poor old father ought to have it. There is no better time to give it."

Elizabeth opened it with trembling fingers.

"I hope it is not wrong."

"It would be too great a risk either to give it or to withhold it without having known its nature. It was written so long ago, and it would be terrible to have sorrow added to sorrow now."

A single glance was enough.

"Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight."

Elizabeth read no more. That was enough. She burst into sudden weeping.

"And he never saw his father again."

"No. And the father never saw the words his son had written," said Betsey, scarcely less moved.

Daylight was coming in by this time and there was the sound of footsteps at the door. Then Jacob's voice was heard, and remembering that the squire had said that the papers were for Elizabeth's eyes alone, Betsey lifted the bag from the table and carried it into the sick-room. Mr Maxwell was with Jacob, and other people were waiting to hear how the night had been pa.s.sed.

"He has had a good night, and is still sleeping quietly," said Elizabeth.