'Oh, I almost forgot to say that the doctor was here to-day. He hasn't time to write, but he says he has read your letter carefully, and he thinks that your mother is going along well. He expects a change very soon for the better. He gave me another prescription for you, which I send in this. 'I never thought much of it till lately, my dear, but really there are a great many good people in the world--But there! if I don't stop at once, I shall go rambling on all night, and there's some one tapping at the door. Come in! Only think, I've written it instead of saying it--Your affectionate friend, 'Josey.' I untied the packet which Josey had enclosed, and found two letters in it--one, very bulky, in uncle Bryan's handwriting, the other written by Jessie. How my heart beat as I gazed at the latter! Both were addressed to my mother. It was a fine clear night, and a sweet soft air was stirring--so sweet and soft that I was sitting at my work-table with the window open. Florry had gone to bed; my mother was asleep. I had always opened my mother's letters, and I reflected whether I was justified in opening these. After a little while I decided to read uncle Bryan's letter, for the reason that it would probably inform me where he was staying; in which case I should be able to rid myself of the responsibility of his business. Jessie's letter I would not read--at least for the present; she may have written in it what she might not wish me to see. I laid it aside, and unfastened the envelope of uncle Bryan's letter. It contained many sheets of manuscript, methodically arranged, some in uncle Bryan's handwriting, some in a writing which was strange to me. I give them in their order. The first was from uncle Bryan to my mother: 'Dear Emma,--I will not speak of my reasons for leaving you. Perhaps you may be able to guess them. I did it for the best. My absence may bring peace and happiness into your home, for it is yours. I relinquish all claim to it. When I tell you that I shall never return, you will know that I shall not set foot inside the shop again. I cannot have many years longer to live, and I shall do well enough, so do not give yourself any anxiety about me. I shall always be able to get my bread, and I shall wait patiently for death, and shall be grateful when it comes, but I shall do nothing to hasten it. Life has been a weary load to me, and I shall be glad to shake it off. This impatience would change to resignation and to gratitude, not for death, but for life, if it were possible for one thing to happen; but it is utterly, utterly impossible, and it is just and right that it should be out of my reach.