"I pity any person in trouble," Alden said, "for I have had my share of sorrow and suffering." He would have said more, but at that moment the door-bell rang, and Mrs. Nash said:
"If you are in trouble confide in me, and I will try and give you the consolation I hope some good person will give my own poor boy."
George Howard—we must for the present call him by that name—passed on to his room, while the good woman went to answer the door-bell. At the supper table she spoke kindly to the new boarder, who ate but little, and soon re-entered his room.
The following day, sending again to the post-office, the boy returned bearing in his hand a letter addressed to George Howard, Chicago, Ill.
Seizing it with trembling hands, Alden hastily tore open the envelope, looked at the few lines it contained, and holding the sheet before his eyes, with a trembling voice read aloud:
"Cleverdale, 187–.
"Sir: On receipt of your letter, I immediately returned to Cleverdale. When I thought you an honest man, I respected and loved you, but your crime has aroused me from this dream. Never dare address me again, for I abhor a villain.
Belle Hamblin."
He crushed the letter and tore it into shreds. As the pieces fell from his hand his pale face became suffused with scarlet, and large cords rose on his temples and brow as he said:
"My God!—And she too believes it? I did not think that—Oh, my head is bursting—I am dying—God, have mercy—I—I—"
He staggered and fell heavily to the floor. Mrs. Nash hastily entering the room beheld him lying senseless upon the carpet. The good woman, seeing the scattered pieces of paper, at once comprehended the situation, for she knew her young son had brought a letter which must have contained bad news.