"Here is a letter directed to 'Robert G. Bunyard, London,'" I replied, producing it.
"I wouldn't open that yet. What else have you?"
"Here are half a dozen letters," I added, opening one of them.
"What does it say?—read it," said Bob, impatiently.
I read it, and it proved to be an acknowledgment of the receipt of two hundred pounds, signed by Bunyard.
Four others were of similar import, and all of them were dated in different years. The sixth began in the same manner, acknowledging a like sum of money. It was dated three years back. I read aloud, with intense emotion, a few lines that followed the business matter.
"'The poor lady is much more quiet and contented in her new home than she was at my last writing, and her physician hopes that she will soon be quite reconciled. She persists in declaring that she is entirely well, and wishes to return to America. She says nothing now about the melancholy death of her son, and we hope that good nursing and skilful treatment will eventually restore her, at least, to her ordinary degree of health.'"
"My poor mother!" I exclaimed, bursting into tears, and crushing the letter in my hand.
"How sad!" said Kate.
"I must go to her at once! I will find her, if I have to search through the earth for her!" I ejaculated, bitterly, as I wiped away my tears. "Did you think my uncle was such an infernal villain?"