ell to keep our secret to ourselves. Forgive us both this
suppression of the truth. We were made poor by our own voluntary act
and deed, and because I married the only woman I loved.

"I was engaged to a girl whom I did not love. We had been brought up
like brother and sister together, but I did not love her, though I was
engaged to her. In breaking this engagement I angered my father. In
marrying Alice I angered him still more.

"I now know that he has forgiven me; he forgave me on his death-bed;
he revoked his former will and made me his sole heir--just as if
nothing had happened to destroy his old affection--subject to one
condition--viz., that the girl to whom I was first engaged should
receive the whole income until I, or my heirs, should return to
England in order to claim the inheritance.

"It is strange. I die in a wooden shanty, in a little Western town,
the editor of a miserable little country paper. I have not money
enough even to bury me, and yet, if I were at home, I might be called
a rich man, as men go. My little Iris will be an heiress. At the very
moment when I learn that I am my father's heir, I am struck down by
fever; and now I know that I shall never get up again.

"It is strange. Yet my father sent me his forgiveness, and my wife is
dead, and the wealth that has come is useless to me. Wherefore,
nothing now matters much to me, and I know that you will hold my last
wishes sacred.

"I desire that Iris shall be educated as well and thoroughly as you
can afford; keep her free from rough and rude companions; make her
understand that her father was a gentleman of ancient family; this
knowledge will, perhaps, help to give her self-respect. If any
misfortune should fall upon you, such as the loss of health or wealth,
give the papers inclosed to a trustworthy solicitor, and bid him act
as is best in the interests of Iris. If, as I hope, all will go well
with you, do not open the papers until my child's twenty-first
birthday; do not let her know until then that she is going to be rich;
on her twenty-first birthday, open the papers and bid her claim her
own.

"To the woman I wronged--I know not whether she has married or
not--bid Iris carry my last message of sorrow at what has happened. I
do not regret, and I have never regretted, that I married Alice. But,
I gave her pain, for which I have never ceased to grieve. I have been
punished for this breach of faith. You will find among the papers an
accoun