After this was done, and he had asked Hattie to sit down—for no one else would be called until the dinner-hour was past, and the work call sounded—Hattie took the letters from her pocket and opened her business.
“You kindly consented to undertake a mission for me, Mr. W——. It may be to you a thankless undertaking. Yet, on the contrary, it may be a joyous, gracious work. I have seen so much, suffered so much that I have little faith in the reformation of man when he has once yielded himself a slave to appetite and forgotten his manhood. If you follow the directions laid down in a letter I have written to you, you will deliver another letter to a man whom I once believed to be the noblest of his race. He fell, thank Heaven, before I was placed where his fall could drag me down. I would not utterly condemn and bid him go down, down, till he sank forever in the gulf of shame. I wept over him while I drove him from my side, and I prayed to him to go where no one would know him, and there to lead a new life. It was a terrible thing for me to do. I loved that man with my whole heart and soul. You may know some time who and what I was when I thus sent him forth—let it suffice that I was not a work-girl.
“He went. I have never seen him since. But at intervals I have heard from him. It was he who sketched the ‘Mountain Home,’ which you found in my portfolio. He professes to have reformed entirely. He says he is rich. I care not for his gold. But if he is rich in temperance, in virtue, in honor, in manhood restored and truth redeemed, I will keep the troth once plighted.
“To you, dear, kind friend, I confide the task of learning if this be so. I know you will do it without one selfish thought or wish to warp your judgment. And now you see my future is in your hands. Take these letters and the sketch of the spot where he writes he is to be found. There is a secret trail, but the key to find it is in my letter.”
“I accept the mission. Manfully to him and truthfully to you will I carry out your desires.”
“Thank you, Mr. W——. Look over my letter, and see if it needs any explanation. I will look at the morning paper while you read.”
She took up the paper while he read the letter.
Suddenly he heard a gasping cry from her lips. He looked up—she stood, pale and breathless like a statue of despair, with her finger on one of the “Personal” notices in that paper. At a glance, wild and swift, he read these words:
“G. E. L.—If you yet live, come to your mother quickly—she is dying!”