You asked Will to go to walk. He started, and I ran and forced him back. To punish him, I shut him up in the room, forgetting that you had placed your gun behind the door. In my insane terror I charged you with murdering him, Harold. Before he died he confessed that he had loaded it,—put in the very bullet that was to end his life. Harold, can you forgive me when I say that I knew this when I saw you at his funeral, and did not tell you? Yes, when I saw you so changed that I scarcely recognized you, I kept his dying messages, which would have relieved your sorrow. I charged you with being his murderer, but no one believed me. Aunt Sarah did you justice. She told every one you loved the boy, and that he loved you,—that it was an accident. After Will confessed that he loaded the gun, she repeated this to every one. You were pitied, and I, who so idolized the boy, was looked on with suspicion. Even Aunt Sarah told me that I had ruined Will by indulgence, or he would never have touched the gun contrary to your orders. I hated her for saying it, but I knew that what she said was true. Later.—I am already relieved by my confession, and, as I feel stronger this morning, I will write while I can. I shall commit this to the care of a dear friend, who first led me to hope for pardon through Christ. I can never tell any one how much she has been to me. Beautiful, accomplished, and rich, she devotes herself and all she has to the divine work of winning others to her Saviour. Dear brother, I wish you could meet such a friend. If you have never sought Christ let a sister's dying words prevail. His love is more precious than all the world beside. If I, with all my load of guilt can receive forgiveness, no one need despair. I told you I would never forgive you. One day I heard a sermon from the young chaplain of the Home, where I was staying. He repeated the words of our Saviour, "If ye forgive not men their trespasses," etc., and explained the wretched, despairing condition of those who cherish a spirit of unforgiveness.