Had Willie changed to her? No; he had come back as he went—generous, manly, and affectionate. He had manifested the same unaffected warmth of feeling, the same thoughtful tenderness, he had ever shown. In short, he was the Willie she had thought of, dreamed of, imagined, and loved. There was a light tap at her door. Thinking it a summons to the tea-table, she said, "Jane, I do not wish for any supper."
"It isn't that," said the girl; "but I have brought you a letter." Gertrude sprang up and opened the door.
"A little boy handed it to me and then ran off," said the girl, placing a large package in her hand. "He told me to give it to you straight away."
"Bring me a light," said Gertrude.
The girl went for a lamp, while Gertrude wondered what a package so large could contain. She thought no letter could so soon arrive from Mr. Amory. While she was wondering, Jane brought a lamp, by the light of which she detected his handwriting; and, breaking the seal, she drew from the envelope several closely-written pages, whose contents she perused with the greatest eagerness and excitement.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE FATHER'S STORY.
"My Daughter,—My loving, kind-hearted girl. Now that your own words encourage me with the assurance that my first fear was unfounded—now that I can appeal to you as to an impartial witness, I will disclose the story of my life; and, while I prove to you your parentage, will hope that my unprejudiced child at least will believe, love, and trust her father, in spite of a world's injustice.
"I will conceal nothing. I will plunge at once into those disclosures which I most dread to utter, and trust to after explanation to palliate the darkness of my tale.