"Now—the letter, please! Children, go away; I want to speak to your father. The letter, John?"
Her hand, which she held out, shook much. She tried to unfold the paper—stopped, and looked up piteously.
"It is not to tell me he is not coming home? I can bear anything, you know—but he MUST come."
John only answered, "Read,"—and took firm hold of her hand while she read—as we hold the hand of one undergoing great torture,—which must be undergone, and which no human love can either prepare for, or remove, or alleviate.
The letter, which I saw afterwards, was thus:
"DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,
"I have disgraced you all. I have been drunk—in a gaming-house. A man insulted me—it was about my father—but you will hear—all the world will hear presently. I struck him—there was something in my hand, and—the man was hurt.
"He may be dead by this time. I don't know.
"I am away to America to-night. I shall never come home any more. God bless you all.
"GUY HALIFAX.