"All of them! Every one?" "I thought I had burnt all, but I found to-day that I had not. Three were in another place. I came across them to-day, and I have read them. I had a reason for doing so, or else I would have burnt those too. And they have made me very unhappy." "Do you mind telling me what they are about?" "I think I should like to do that. I think I would rather show them to you, if you don't mind. It would be a comfort. They tell me more about his past than I have known before. I mean, about the reason that we had to leave our old home." "Poor girl!" he said, at the sound of a sob. "I'm sorry they distress you so much. After all, the thing is over now; and he is beyond the reach of such troubles. Can't you look upon it in that light?" "Ah, but his name is not cleared," she said, very low. "You have not got the letters with you, I suppose? You have? Shall we go into this field and sit on the log? It is not too dark for me to make them out. You would like that? Come along. Pattie, do you know that your father said something to me about this when he was dying? I have never told you." "No. What did he say?" "He implied that he had been wrongly accused. He said you did not know it, and he did not wish you to know, until the truth should come out; so I am sorry you should have read the letters." "But you thought I ought to read them all." "Did I say that exactly? Perhaps I hardly realised that you would discover more than your father meant you to know. In an ordinary case, if a man wishes his child not to know a thing after his death, he does not keep letters bearing on the subject. Now we can sit down, and no one will disturb us. Your father said something more, Pattie. He declared in the strongest manner, as in the sight of God, and as a man facing death, that he had not done the thing of which he was accused. He implored me to believe him; and I did believe him. I believe him still. I do not think any man, as he then was, could have said what he said—deliberately and more than once—if it had been a lie." "You believe him? I am glad!" whispered Pattie. "Now I do not mind showing these to you. I think you will believe him still." She handed the three sheets to Cragg, and waited patiently as he made his way through one after another—not an easy task in the waning light. "Yes," he said at length gravely. "I see." "You think—" "My dear, I think things must have looked black. This Mr. Peterson does not give me the impression of being hard or unjust." "O no; he was always just and kind—before this—always a friend." "And you had known him for years? You may be sure he would not suddenly have changed without believing that he had reason. But, on the other hand, I cannot think your father guilty. Even the little that I saw of him gave me an impression that he was an upright man; and what he said when dying—No, I do not think him guilty. I believe that some day his name will be cleared. What do you mean to do with these?"