After the last sheet of this letter, there were a few words in uncle Bryan's handwriting, evidently intended for my mother: 'If you see her whom I scarcely dare call my daughter for the shame which overwhelms me, tell her but one thing from me--that her mother's suspicions concerning the woman I befriended are unfounded. She will believe this, perhaps; it is the truth.' CHAPTER XLIII. A HAPPY RECOVERY. The perusal of this letter affected me powerfully. There was something solemn in the mere handling of a confession written by a woman long since dead--a woman who had been so cruelly wronged and had so cruelly suffered. It was like a voice from the tomb, and it was impossible to resist the conviction that forced itself upon my mind that it was the solemn, bitter truth. I had never suspected that Jessie was in any way related to uncle Bryan, but it did not surprise me to learn it. The fact that she was my cousin brought with it no sense of pleasure; it gave me no claim on her affection. Rather would she be inclined to look with feelings of repugnance upon all who were connected with her by blood, for by the nearest of these her mother had been brought to misery and shame, and her own life had been made most unhappy; and it was not to be doubted that all her soul would rise in vindication of her mother's honour. It was past midnight, and everything about me was very still. My mother was sleeping more peacefully than she had yet done through her illness, and I remarked with thankfulness that the distressed expression on her face was wearing away, and that she was beginning to look something like her old sweet self. Insensibly in her sleep her arm stole round my neck. I let it rest there for many minutes, and when I rose from her side and kissed her fingers, there was a soft smile upon her lips--the first unclouded smile I had seen there for many a day. It gave me hope and gladdened my heart.