him.--I am, dear sir, respectfully yours, James Harris." It hardly need be said that this letter moved Amos deeply. What could be done? What was his duty? What was his sister's duty? He felt in perplexity, so he took the trouble and laid it out before Him who bids us cast on him every care. Then he betook himself to his aunt's room and read the letter to her. "What shall I do, dear aunt?" he asked. "The question, I think, rather is," replied Miss Huntingdon, "What ought not your sister to do? Clearly, to my mind, it is her duty to go to her poor dying husband, forgive all if he shows himself really penitent, and be with him to the last." "Such is my conviction too," said Amos sadly; "but I fear that Julia will not see her duty in the light in which we see it. May I call her, and just read the letter to her before you?" "Yes, dear boy, if you like." So Amos repaired to the dining-room, where his sister and Walter were engaged in a brisk conversation. "What's amiss with you now?" asked Walter, noticing the serious look on his brother's face. "You ought to be very bright this beautiful morning. Julia and I have been planning a nice little scheme for this afternoon. I am hoping, with the gamekeeper's help, to bag two or three brace of partridges before dinner-time. I can drive Julia to the gamekeeper's hut, and she can take a sketch or two while I am shooting. The woods are looking beautiful now with their autumnal tints, and will give lovely little bits for a sketch. Won't you join us?" "Well," replied Amos gravely, "it would be very nice; but just now I have a rather important matter I want to talk to Julia about, if she will just spare me a few minutes, and come with me to my aunt's room." "Dear me! what can you want with _me_?" asked his sister, turning deep red and then very pale. "I'm sure I don't want to talk about anything dismal this delicious morning. Oh! don't look so serious, Amos; you are always in the dolefuls now. Why can't you be cheerful and jolly, like Walter?" "I am sorry to trouble you," replied her brother, "but there is a cause just now. I shall not keep you long, and then you can return to your jollity if you will." These last words he uttered in a tone of reproach which touched her spite of herself. She rose and followed him in silence to her aunt's room. When all were seated, Amos produced the Scripture reader's letter, and, expressing his deep sorrow to have to wound his sister, read it slowly out in a subdued voice. Julia sprang from her seat, and having snatched the letter from her brother's hand, read it through several times, her bosom heaving and her eyes flashing, and a few tears bursting forth now and then. "It's a hoax," she cried at last; "one of _his_ hoaxes. It can't be true." "I fear it _is_ true," said Amos calmly. "To me the letter bears all the marks of truth.--Don't you think so, Aunt Kate?" "Yes, surely," replied Miss Huntingdon sadly; "I cannot doubt its genuineness."