Helen read it, and the tears stood in her eyes.
“The young scoun—”
“Stop, papa!” said Helen earnestly. “Do not condemn him unheard.”
“Then I shall have to go on without condemning him, for we’ve seen the last of him, I suppose.”
“O papa!”
“Well, it looks like it, my dear; and I’m afraid I’ve made a great mistake, but I don’t like to own it.”
“Wait, papa, wait!” said Helen.
“What does he say? Been gone a fortnight, and would not write till he had had the country round thoroughly searched. Humph! Afraid he has got to Portsmouth, and gone to sea.”
Helen sighed.
“‘Sorry to give so bad an account of him,’” muttered the doctor, reading bits of the letter—“‘treated him as his own son—seemed to have an undercurrent of evil in his nature, impossible to eradicate—tried everything, but all in vain—was beginning to despair, but still hopeful that patience might overcome the difficulty—patience combined with affectionate treatment, but it was in vain—after trying to persuade his fellow-pupils one by one, and failing, he threatened them savagely if they dared to betray him, and then he escaped from the grounds, and has not been seen since.’”