here is no wrong that can be righted now," Valentine presently found
voice enough to say; "there never has been from the first, unless I am
mistaken."

"Then I depend on your love for me and mine--your own family--to be
silent in life, and silent after death. See that no such letters as
these are left behind you."

"I have searched the whole place, and there is not another letter--not
one line. You may well depend on me. I will be silent."

John stood lost in thought and amazement; he read Daniel Mortimer's
letter again, folded it reverently, and pressed it between his hands.
"Well, I am grateful to him," Valentine heard him whisper, and he sank
into thought again.

"Our fathers were perfectly blameless," said Valentine.

John roused himself then. "Evidently, thank God! And now these two
letters--they concern no one but ourselves." He approached the grate; a
fire was burning in it. He lifted off the coals, making a hollow bed in
its centre. "You will let me burn them now, of course?"

"Yes," said Valentine; "but not together."

"No; you are right," John answered, and he took old Daniel Mortimer's
letter and laid it into the place he had prepared, covering it with the
glowing cinders, then with the poker he pushed the other between the
lower bars, and he and Valentine watched it till every atom was
consumed.

There was no more for him to tell; John Mortimer thought he knew enough.
Valentine felt what a relief this was, but also that John's amazement by
no means subsided. He was trying hard to be gentle, to be moderately
calm; he resolutely forbore from any comment on Valentine's conduct; but
he could not help expressing his deep regret that the matter should have
been confided to any one--even to Brandon--and finding, perhaps, that
his horror and indignation were getting the better of him, he suddenly
started up, and declared that he would walk about in the gallery for
awhile. "For," he said pointedly to Valentine, "as you were remarking to
me this morning, there is a good deal that ought to be done at once,"
and out he dashed into the fresh spring air, and strode about in the
long wooden gallery, with a vigour and vehemence that did not promise
much for the quietness of their coming discussion.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, went by--almost half an hour--before John
Mortimer came in again.

Valentine looked up and saw, as John shut himself in, that he looked
almost as calm as usual, and that his face had rega