“What of the letter?” asked Mr. Brownlow.

“The letter?⁠—A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery⁠—to be explained one day⁠—prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her⁠—prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before⁠—and then ran on, wildly, in the same words, over and over again, as if he had gone distracted. I believe he had.”