The poor lady is much more quiet and contented in her new home than
she was at my last writing, and her physician hopes that she will soon
be quite reconciled. She persists in declaring that she is entirely
well, and wishes to return to America. She says nothing now about the
melancholy death of her son, and we hope that good nursing and skilful
treatment will eventually restore her, at least, to her ordinary degree
of health.'"

"My poor mother!" I exclaimed, bursting into tears, and crushing the
letter in my hand.

"How sad!" said Kate.

"I must go to her at once! I will find her, if I have to search through
the earth for her!" I ejaculated, bitterly, as I wiped away my tears.
"Did you think my uncle was such an infernal villain?"

"I did not, Ernest; but don't be distressed about it. The letter
intimates that she is kindly treated."

"I hope she is."

"Have you any more papers, Ernest?" asked Bob, apparently as much with
the intention of turning my thoughts away from the sad subject which
agitated me, as of gratifying his own curiosity.

"That's all, Bob," I replied, taking from my pocket the piece of
newspaper in which I had rolled up the money I had taken from the safe.
"Was it stealing for me to take this money?" I asked, as I unrolled the
bills.

"I don't think it was," replied Bob. "You took it to pay your expenses
in finding your mother; and, even if it were a technical theft, I don't
think any one can blame you for what you have done. The money is really
your own. How much is there?"

"I don't know. I haven't looked at it before."

"Count it, Ernest."

I did so, and was appalled to find I had taken between fourteen and
fifteen hundred dollars.

"All right, Ernest. You are a smart fellow, and I'll tell you what I
should do if I were in your place," replied Bob, who did not appear to
be alarmed at the magnitude of the sum.

"What?"

"I would go to England in the very next steamer, and find my mother."

"Go to England!"

"It is clear enough to me that your mother is there. If you expect to
find her, you must go there."

"I will do it, Bob," I replied, excited at the idea of crossing the
ocean in search of my mother.

"Certainly; do it. You have a letter directed to--what's his name?"

"Robert G. Bunyard."

"Go to London, find this man, deliver the letter, and tell him you want
to see the poor lady."

"I'll do it. Don't you suppose Tom Thornton will try to stop me?"

"No matter if he