“He slowly lifted the pistol towards his head.”
“Any letters, Ernest?” asked the former.
“Letters! O yes, I beg your pardon; here they are;” and he took a packet from the pocket of his white coat, and handed them to him.
Mr. Alston took them, looking all the while fixedly at Ernest, who avoided his glance.
“What is the matter, my boy?” he said kindly, at last; “nothing wrong, I hope?”
Ernest looked at him blankly.
“What is it, old chap?” said Jeremy, seating himself on the bed beside him, and laying his hand on his arm.
Then Ernest broke out into a paroxysm of grief painful to behold. Fortunately for all concerned, it was brief. Had it lasted much longer, something must have given way. Suddenly his mood changed, and he grew hard and bitter.
“Nothing, my dear fellows, nothing,” he said; “that is, only the sequel to a pretty little idyl. You may remember a letter I wrote—to a woman—some months back. There, you both of you know the story. Now you shall hear the answer, or, to be more correct, the answers.
“That—woman has a sister. Both she and her sister have written to me. My—her sister’s letter is the longest. We will take it first. I think that we may skip the first page, there is nothing particular in it, and I do not wish to—waste your time. Now listen: