Tremblingly he lifted a loose stone from the hearth, and brought up a small black box, the same that I had seen under the hands of old Gaston D’Esterre, in that midnight vision. I did not heed Uncle Peter’s moans and ejaculations, but, getting down on my knees, turned the key in the rusty lock. For half a century and more this faithful servant had hidden the evidence of his old master’s wrong-doing. But I ruthlessly poured out letters and papers, some of them with seals unbroken—letters written by Euphemia and her lover, and intercepted by the crafty Daniel—papers bearing false witness to Herman Vandala’s guilt, and last of all, a brief, remorseful confession from Gaston D’Esterre. They were all yellow and musty, and rustled in my shaking fingers, as I turned them over in the light of the pine-knot fire blazing on the hearth. "Where did you get these, Uncle Peter?" I asked at last. "De Lawd forgive me, chile, I _stole_ ’em, en tuk en hid ’em while ole marse lay a-dyin’ en a-tellin’ Marse Albert whar to fine ’em. I ’feered to burn ’em, but I kep’ ’em, kase dey might fall inter de wrong han’s." There were footsteps on the garden walk, the doorway framed my mother’s black-draped figure and pale, frightened face. "Phemie, child, what are you doing?" "Unearthing old secrets," I said. Beyond her I saw Herman Vandala, and, sweeping the papers together in my hands, rose up. I held them out to him, trembling, burning with shame, yet determined to right that old wrong at any cost. "Proofs of your uncle’s innocence that I have just discovered—I—" He took them, and, with scarcely a glance, threw them over my shoulder into the fire. They caught like tinder, and for a moment the small room was brilliantly illuminated, then only a charred, blackened heap of ashes remained to tell us of that old romance. I covered my face with my hands, but he drew them away. "We will not intermeddle with the past. Restitution cannot be made in this world, unless—is it generous to say?—unless you will be my wife. Let this Herman Vandala have the happiness his kinsman was cheated out of. I love you. I have been loving you faithfully for years. Your mother knows and consents. Come to me, Phemie, dearest, come." My mother smiled tearfully upon us; but Uncle Peter stared at the charred remnants of the secret he had kept so long, muttering: "Bress de Lawd, dey’s gone! Dey weighed heavy on my soul—heavy. I knowed sumfin ’ud happen when I seed Miss Euphemy t’other night steppin’ soft on de stairs, en in dat laylock gown; yes, dat same laylock gown."