It seems strange that Francis could have deceived us for so long; years, it must have been; but we have lived so retired, and were such a simple family for many things. How far Penelope thinks we know--papa and I--I cannot guess: she is totally silent on the subject of Francis. Except in that one outcry, when she was still only half awake, she has never mentioned his name. There was one thing more I wanted to tell you, Max; you know I tell you everything. Just as I was leaving my sister, she, noticing I was not undressed, asked me if I had been sitting up all night, and reproached me for doing so. I said, "I was not weary; that I had been quietly occupying myself in the next room." "Reading?" "No" "What were you doing?" with sharp suspicion. I answered without disguise:-- "I was writing to Max." "Max who?--Oh, I had forgotten his name." She turned from me, and lay with her face to the wall, then said:-- "Do you believe in him?" "Yes, I do." "You had better not. You will live to repent it. Child, mark my words. There may be good women--one or two, perhaps--but there is not a single good man in the whole world." My heart rose to my lips; but deeds speak louder than words. I did not attempt to defend you. Besides, no wonder she should think thus. Again she said, "Dora, tell Doctor Urquhart he was innocent comparatively; and that I say so. He only killed Harry's body, but those who deceive us are the death of one's soul. Nay," and by her expression I felt sure it was not herself and her own wrongs my sister was thinking of--"there are those who destroy both body and soul." I made no answer; I only covered her up, kissed her and left her; knowing that in one sense I did not leave her either forsaken or alone. And now, I must leave you too, Max; being very weary in body, though my mind is comforted and refreshed; ay, ever since I began this letter. So many of your good words have come back to me while I wrote--words which you have let fall at odd times, long ago, even when we were mere acquaintances. You did not think I should remember them? I do, every one. This is a great blow, no doubt. The hand of Providence has been heavy upon us and our house, lately. But I think we shall be able to bear it. One always has courage to bear a sorrow which shows its naked face, free from suspense or concealment; stands visibly in the midst of the home, and has to be met and lived down patiently, by every member therein.