"You think—"
"My dear, I think things must have looked black. This Mr. Peterson does not give me the impression of being hard or unjust."
"O no; he was always just and kind—before this—always a friend."
"And you had known him for years? You may be sure he would not suddenly have changed without believing that he had reason. But, on the other hand, I cannot think your father guilty. Even the little that I saw of him gave me an impression that he was an upright man; and what he said when dying—No, I do not think him guilty. I believe that some day his name will be cleared. What do you mean to do with these?"
"What ought I to do? May I burn them?"
"Don't do anything in a hurry. Put them in a sealed packet, with a direction outside that they are to be burnt after your death. Then lock the packet up, and do not let yourself dwell upon it. You can do no good to him; and remember that he would wish you to be happy."
Pattie murmured a faint assent.
Neither of the two moved at once. It was a still and mild evening. Now and again a soft twitter showed that not all the birds had gone to roost. Sometimes a sound of voices came from the town.
"Mr. Cragg!"
"Yes, my dear."