“Poor Hughie! poor dear, bonnie laddie!” said Betsey softly. “Can it be possible that your father never opened or read this? It was written within a week of the poor boy’s death,” added she, looking at the date on the letter.
“My father never could have opened it or Mr Fleming would have had this,” said Elizabeth, holding up the inclosed note, “I wonder how it could have happened that it was overlooked.”
She never knew, nor did any one. She tried next day to say something to her father about it, but she could not make him understand. He said nothing in reply that had any reference to the letter, or to poor Hugh, or to his father. It must have been, by some unhappy chance, overlooked and placed with other papers in the old saddle-bag, where it had lain all these years.
“And now what shall we do about this?” asked Elizabeth, still holding the other letter in her hand.
It was a single small leaf folded like a letter and one edge slipped in as though it was to have been sealed or fastened with a wafer. But it was open.
“I don’t know, the least in the world,” said Betsey, much moved. “It might hold a medicine for the old man over there, but it might also be poison.”
“But since he wrote to my father of confession and restitution, we may hope that there is a confession in this also.”
“Yes, there is something in that. But it was a great while ago now, and all the old misery would come back again. Not that he has ever forgotten it. And now I fear there is more trouble before him.”
They were greatly at a loss what to do.
“If we could consult some one.”