"See, father, he was writing a letter," said Archie.
Mr. Fairfax took up the paper. This is what it said:—
"Dear Father,—The little 'uns is all well, and I've got money now to last 'em till you are out, if I'm took before, which I'm that bad and low I can't hardly creep along. I've give Polly the money to use when wanted. She's been a good girl all along. Come to the above address as soon as you are out. I done my best, father, as you told me. And now good-bye, if I'm gone.—Your loving son,
"Stephen Bennett.
"P.S.—I never believed as you did it, father, and I don't now. God will make it right, so don't fret."
The envelope lay by the letter. It was directed to—
Ambrose Bennett, No. 357,
Eastwood Jail.
Mr. Fairfax gave them both to his son. "There, Archie," he said; "read these, and see if you still think you were right."
Then he went to Stephen, and did what he could to restore him to consciousness. But he was in such a weak state that nothing seemed of any use.
"Father, I've been a suspicious brute," cried Archie, flinging down the letter. "But for my cold looks and constant spying, which I daresay he's noticed, he might have told me all this, and I might have helped him. Now he's starving and friendless. But I'll try to make up now, if it isn't too late. Do let me carry him home, father—may I?"