"No," she answered, but in a hesitating way. "No, no; I never wrote that!"
She had read a portion of the letter, when this emphatic denial broke from her lips.
"Yet a disinterested person would swear that it was your handwriting, Jessie Lee."
The color flashed into Jessie's cheek; but she constrained herself, answering calmly,—
"I did not write it, father."
Mr. Lee searched her through and through with his stern glances; then, coldly taking the letter from her hand, he held it toward me.
"Say, madam, you should be acquainted with that young lady's handwriting; is this hers?"
I took the letter and read it. The handwriting was certainly like Jessie's, but with an attempt to disguise. The contents convinced me that she never wrote it. They ran thus:—
"Madam: You have wrought mischief enough in the family of an honorable man to be content without bringing disgrace upon your own name. It should be enough that you have broken the life of as good a woman as ever lived; that you have alienated a father from his only child, and separated Mr. Lee from his best friends. If you have still any regard for your own reputation, or for the welfare of those who have never wronged you, leave this house.
"A Friend."
"No," I answered, "Jessie did not write this; the thing is impossible!"