Fool that he
was! She was worth more than all the railroads put together. As if his own
life was in the balance, he read on, growing sick with horror. Poor child!
what had she thought? And how had his own sin and weakness been found out,
or was it merely Harry Temple's wicked heart that had evolved these
stories? The letter smote him with terrible accusation, and all at once it
was fearful to him to think that Marcia had heard such things about him.
When he came to her trust in him he groaned aloud and buried his face in
the letter, and then raised it quickly to read to the end.

When he had finished he rose with sudden determination to pack his
carpet-bag and go home at once. Marcia needed him, and he felt a strong
desire to be near her, to see her and know she was safe. It was
overwhelming. He had not known he could ever feel strongly again. He must
confess his own weakness of course, and he would. She should know all and
know that she might trust his after all.

But the motion of rising had sent the other papers to the floor, and in
falling the bundle of letters that Miranda had enclosed, scattered about
him. He stooped to pick them up and saw his own name written in Kate's
handwriting. Old association held him, and wondering, fearful, not wholly
glad to see it, he picked up the letter. It was an epistle of Kate's,
written in intimate style to Harry Temple and speaking of himself in terms
of the utmost contempt. She even stooped to detail to Harry an account of
her own triumph on that miserable morning when he had taken her in his
arms and kissed her. There were expressions in the letter that showed her
own wicked heart, as nothing else could ever have done, to David. As he
read, his soul growing sick within him,--read one letter after another, and
saw how she had plotted with this bad man to wreck the life of her young
sister for her own triumph and revenge,--the beautiful woman whom he had
loved, and whom he had thought beautiful within as well as without,
crumbled into dust before him. When he looked up at last with white face
and firmly set lips, he found that his soul was free forever from the
fetters that had bound him to her.

He went to the fireplace and laid the pile of letters among the embers,
blowing them into a blaze, and watched them until they were eaten up by
the fire and nothing remained but dead grey ashes. The thought came to him
that that was like his old love. It was burnt out. There had not bee