e. He paced about the room the rest
of the day like a wild beast in a cage, and in the middle of the night,
got up and dressed, and would have crept through the room in which
Robert lay, in the hope of getting out. But Robert slept too anxiously
for that. The captive did not make the slightest noise, but his very
presence was enough to wake his son. He started at a bound from his
couch, and his father retreated in dismay to his chamber.

CHAPTER XIV. THE BROWN LETTER.

At length the time arrived when Robert would make a further attempt,
although with a fear and trembling to quiet which he had to seek the
higher aid. His father had recovered his attempt to rush anew upon
destruction. He was gentler and more thoughtful, and would again sit
for an hour at a time gazing into the fire. From the expression of his
countenance upon such occasions, Robert hoped that his visions were not
of the evil days, but of those of his innocence.

One evening when he was in one of these moods--he had just had his tea,
the gas was lighted, and he was sitting as I have described--Robert
began to play in the next room, hoping that the music would sink into
his heart, and do something to prepare the way for what was to follow.
Just as he had played over the Flowers of the Forest for the third time,
his housekeeper entered the room, and receiving permission from her
master, went through into Andrew's chamber, and presented a packet,
which she said, and said truly, for she was not in the secret, had been
left for him. He received it with evident surprise, mingled with some
consternation, looked at the address, looked at the seal, laid it on the
table, and gazed again with troubled looks into the fire. He had had
no correspondence for many years. Falconer had peeped in when the woman
entered, but the moment she retired he could watch him no longer. He
went on playing a slow, lingering voluntary, such as the wind plays, of
an amber autumn evening, on the aeolian harp of its pines. He played so
gently that he must hear if his father should speak.

For what seemed hours, though it was but half-an-hour, he went on
playing. At length he heard a stifled sob. He rose, and peeped again
into the room. The gray head was bowed between the hands, and the gaunt
frame was shaken with sobs. On the table lay the portraits of himself
and his wife; and the faded brown letter, so many years folded in
silence and darkness, lay open beside them. He had known