“I would like, if you feel able, to have you direct this letter to your mother, and after that you can read it, if you like. I have thought best to write her something of your illness, knowing that she must be very anxious at not hearing from you for so long. I would gladly have done so before had you spoken of it.” “Thank you, sir,” Tom said, in a low voice, as, taking the envelope and the pen filled with ink that Earle had brought him, he directed the letter, in rather a trembling hand. Then he unfolded it and read the few simple words that were written within. “DEAR MADAM,” it said, “your son has been quite sick during the past three months, and I write this that you may feel no further anxiety regarding him. He is improving daily, and will, we hope, soon be well. Should you feel able to come to him, you will come directly to Wycliffe, where you will be cordially received. Inclosed you will find a sum which your son would have sent you before now had he been able to write. Very truly, EARLE WAYNE.” A five-pound note had been inclosed within the letter, at the sight of which Tom Drake’s lips suddenly tightened into a firm line. He read the letter through, and, when he had finished, it dropped from his fingers upon the counterpane, and lay there while he turned his face to the wall, and for some minutes did not speak. “What did you do that for?” he at last demanded, almost fiercely, but with lips that trembled in spite of himself. “To comfort an aged, anxious mother, and give a sick fellow a chance to see a familiar face. You would surely like to see your mother, Tom?” “Yes; but it will be a little hard on the old lady when she finds we’ll have to part again so soon,” he said, with a stony look in his eyes. “Don’t think of that now,” Earle said, kindly. “Is there anything more you would like me to add to the letter?” Tom shook his head, and, picking up the letter and the note, tried to replace them in the envelope, but his hand shook so that he could not do it. Earle gently took them from him, folded and sealed the letter, and went out, leaving him alone. A groan burst from the huge chest of the once hardened wretch as the door closed after him, and burying his head in his pillow, he lay a long time without moving. The next morning he seemed very silent and much depressed. It was a fine day, and Earle took him for a drive in the beautiful park around Wycliffe. He did not talk much, but appeared lost in thought, until the horses’ heads were turned toward home; then he astonished Earle by seizing his hand and bursting out: