What was the meaning, he asked himself, of the scene he had just beheld at the Abbey? It was evident that the drawers of the bookcases which had been left to him with all their contents of every kind, had been opened without his consent or knowledge. All that those two rooms contained, of every kind and description whatsoever, had been left to him by his father's will. The papers which he had seen taken out might be of infinite importance to him. Who could tell what might be done with them? Roberts he believed to be perfectly honest. Faber, though very weak, was kind and gentle; but his brother he felt he could not depend upon. His notions of right and wrong were anything but strict; and his ideas of his own privileges and rights distorted by that species of haughty selfishness, which makes despots of crowned monarchs and tyrants and unjust men in every walk of life, might induce him to read the legacy to his brother in a very different sense from the plain one, and lead him to take possession of the papers which had been found by his steward and his secretary. Chandos thought long--sadly--seriously. There are despairing moments, when all earthly things seem nothing. When the objects of hope and desire appear valueless--when we feel tired out with the struggle against fate, and are inclined to give it up and let all things take their chance. Those are dangerous moments. Let every man beware of them. They are the first symptoms of the worst kind of mental malady--apathy; and without prompt and speedy remedies, the disease will get such a hold that it will be with difficulty cast off. Chandos felt it creeping upon him, as he had once felt it before. It seemed as if his destiny was to misfortune; as if nothing could go right with him; as if every effort, every hope failed. What was the use of prolonging the strife? What mattered it how the papers, the furniture, the books, the busts, the pictures, were disposed of? Why should he play out a losing game? Were it not better to spread out his cards upon the board, and let his adversary make the most of them? But, happily, like a ray of light breaking through the storm clouds--like the first smile of summer after winter--like an angel sent to comfort, the image of Rose Tracy rose up before his memory. For her was the struggle. She was the spirit of hope to him; and the strife against fortune was renewed. Every possession--every chance became an object worth preserving, as Rose Tracy presented herself to thought, and for her he resolved to neglect no effort which he had power to make. The first thing he decided upon was to let Roberts, at least, know that he was aware of what had taken place; and, calling for pen and ink and paper, he wrote him a short formal note, to the following effect:-- Sir,