“Has he sent them on to you?” she asked after a little pause, resisting only by a great effort the temptation to look towards the writing-table. “Yes,” was the reply. “It appears that they have been in his possession for some time. He kept them back for some reason--I cannot think why.” Providence is sometimes unexpectedly kind. Had Mrs. Agar been a different woman, had she, perhaps, been a better woman, less aggravating, more discreet, more honourable, she would not have done at this moment precisely that which Dora was silently praying that she would do. “Here,” continued the mistress of Stagholme, going to the writing-table, “is his diary; perhaps you would care to look through it? Poor Jem! I am afraid it will not be very interesting.” Dora took the little dark-coloured book almost indifferently. “Thanks,” she said. “It was always an effort to him to write the very shortest letter, was it not? Papa would like to see it, I know, if I may show it to him.” Being rather taller than Mrs. Agar, she could see over that lady's shoulder as she stood turning over with some curiosity a score or so of bundles evidently containing letters. “These,” said Mrs. Agar, “seem to be letters; probably our letters to him. Shall we burn them?” Dora reflected for a moment. She knew that many of the bundles must contain letters from herself to Jem--letters which could have been read from the housetops without conveying anything to the populace. But some of them--almost between the lines--had been intended to convey, and had conveyed, something to Jem. She reflected--without anger, as women do on such matters--that if curiosity moved her, Mrs. Agar would not scruple to open all these letters and read them. The packets had evidently not been opened, and a momentary feeling of grateful recognition of Arthur's gentlemanly honour passed through her mind. There was about the faded papers that dim, mysterious odour which ever clings to packages that have been packed in India. “Yes,” she said, “let us burn them.” Mrs. Agar seemed to hesitate for a moment, but it was only for effect. She dreaded the packages, for one of them might contain the will which haunted her. And so these two women, so very different, from such very different motives, carried the letters to the fire, and there they burnt them. In the curling flames Dora saw her own handwriting. She could not understand the suppressed excitement of Mrs. Agar's manner; she only knew that the mistress of Stagholme seemed to be afraid of looking at the burning papers. When all was consumed both women heaved a sigh of relief. “There,” said Mrs. Agar, “I am glad we have been able to save poor Arthur that. These things are so very painful.” Dora looked rather as if she could not understand why the painful things of life should be harder for Arthur to bear than for other people. But she said nothing.