ned to explain herself
to me.

"The letter that you put on Mr. Keller's desk," she said pleasantly.
"This time, David, I act as my own postman--at Mr. Keller's request."

In her place, I should certainly have torn it up. To keep it, on the bare
chance of its proving to be of some use in the future, seemed to imply
either an excessive hopefulness or an extraordinary foresight, on the
widow's part. Without in the least comprehending my own state of mind, I
felt that she had, in some mysterious way, disappointed me by keeping
that letter. As a matter of course, I turned to leave the room, and Mr.
Engelman (from a similar motive of delicacy) followed me to the door. Mr.
Keller called us both back.

"Wait, if you please," he said, "until I have read it."

Madame Fontaine was looking out of the window. It was impossible for us
to discover whether she approved of our remaining in the room or not.

Mr. Keller read the closely written pages with the steadiest attention.
He signed to the widow to approach him, and took her hand when he had
arrived at the last words.

"Let me ask your pardon," he said, "in the presence of my partner and in
the presence of David Glenney, who took charge of your letter. Madame
Fontaine, I speak the plain truth, in the plainest words, when I tell you
that I am ashamed of myself."

She dropped on her knees before him, and entreated him to say no more.
Mr. Engelman looked at her, absorbed in admiration. Perhaps it was the
fault of my English education--I thought the widow's humility a little
overdone. What Mr. Keller's opinion might be, he kept to himself. He
merely insisted on her rising, and taking a chair by his side.

"To say that I believe every word of your letter," he resumed, "is only
to do you the justice which I have too long delayed. But there is one
passage which I must feel satisfied that I thoroughly understand, if you
will be pleased to give me the assurance of it with your own lips. Am I
right in concluding, from what is here written of your husband's
creditors, that his debts (which have now, in honor, become your debts)
have been all actually _paid_ to the last farthing?"

"To the last farthing!" Madame Fontaine answered, without a moment's
hesitation. "I can show you the receipts, sir, if you like."

"No, madam! I take your word for it--I require nothing more. Your title
to my heart-felt respect is now complete. The slanders which I have
disgraced myself by believing would