“We are friends,” said he, turning short towards me. “I have told you some of my troubles of the past. Read this letter, and make yourself acquainted with some more. It is from Amanda Milne.”
He held the letter before my eyes, and I read:—
“I know your upright and manly spirit will see no impropriety in my writing to you. I have done you injustice; and in doing so, have wronged myself, as much as you. I have just learnt that your character has been injured by a fault of mine—by my not having acknowledged giving you the purse. Forgive me, Richard! for I love you, and have loved you, ever since I was a child.”—Guinane crumpled the letter between his fingers, and I was able to read no more. I saw him suddenly raise his hands towards the place where once were his ears—at the same time that I heard him muttering the words, “Too late! too late!” Another movement followed this—quick and suspicious. I looked to ascertain its meaning. A revolver was in his hand—its muzzle touching his temples!
I rushed forward; but to use his own last words, I was “too late.”
There were three distinct sounds; a snap, the report of a pistol, and the concussion of a body falling upon the floor.
I stooped to raise him up. It was too late. He was dead!
Can the reader comprehend the thought that dictated this act of self-destruction? If not, I must leave him in ignorance.
In preparing the remains of my comrade for the grave, a silk purse, containing a piece of paper, was found concealed beneath his clothing. There was writing upon the paper, in a female hand. It was as follows:—
“Dick,
“I do not believe the stories people tell of you; and think you are too good to do anything wrong I am sorry you have gone away. Good bye.
“Amanda.”
It was, no doubt, the note he had received from Amanda, after his first parting with her—enclosed in the letter of his mother, sent after him to New York. It was replaced in the purse, and both were buried along with his body.