rose, and clutching the letter in his hand as though it were too
precious to be trusted to his pocket, he quietly left the office and the
warehouse and walked up the street.

He walked on rapidly until he reached a large building which bore the
sign "Australian Hotel." Here he entered, and walked up stairs to a
room, and locked himself in. Then when alone in his own apartments he
ventured to open the letter.

The paper was poor and mean; the handwriting, like that of the address,
was tremulous, and in many places quite illegible; the ink was pale; and
the whole appearance of the letter seemed to indicate poverty and
weakness on the part of the writer. By a very natural impulse Brandon
hesitated before beginning to read, and took in all these things with a
quick glance.

At last he nerved himself to the task and began to read.

This was the letter.

"Brandon, March 10, 1846.

"My dear Boy,--These are the last words which you will ever hear from
your father. I am dying, my dear boy, and dying of a broken heart; but
_where_ I am dying I am afraid to tell you. That bitterness I leave
for you to find out some day for yourself. In poverty unspeakable, in
anguish that I pray you may never know, I turn to you after a silence of
years, and my first word is to implore your forgiveness. I know my noble
boy that you grant it, and it is enough for me to ask it. After asking
this I can die content on that score.