I was in no humour for sleep, having had some rest during the day, and I had told Florry that I would sit up with my mother until the morning. I placed the letter I had been reading in my desk, and then, arranging the screen in such a manner that the light by which I worked should not fall upon my mother's face, and also in such a manner that when she opened her eyes they must rest upon me, I sat at my table and worked and thought. My work was noiseless, and I could do it without disturbing the stillness. I was thankful for that. I do not know in what way it came into my mind that there are numberless small things in life which we ought to be grateful for, but the thought came. Presently, while my hand and eyes were busy on delicate manipulations in the wood, my mind reverted to uncle Bryan and Jessie, and the strange, strange letter I had read. Could Jessie ever forgive her father? Never, I thought. The unkindnesses inflicted upon herself she might have been eager to forgive when she made the discovery that she had a father living, but the wrong inflicted upon her mother was past forgiveness. Truly, the dead wife had punished the living husband with a cunning hand. But it was a just blow that she had struck. She had shown no vindictiveness; for had he behaved kindly to the girl to whom he had given the shelter of his home, Jessie would never have been made acquainted with her mother's wrongs. Yes, it was just, but it was terrible. Terrible indeed. To find a father only to hate him. To find a father, and in the discovery to gain the knowledge that his conduct to her mother might have brought lasting shame and disgrace upon her own good name. And he? How did he feel it? The words he addressed to me in his letter to my mother were very clear in my mind. Too late I see my folly and my crime. Many things that Christopher said to me were true. I humbly ask his forgiveness, and I humbly pray that the happiness he said I did my best to destroy may yet fall to his lot. If he will picture me, an old man with a bleeding heart, into whose life but few rays of sunshine have passed, pleading to him, he may soften towards me. Perhaps he may believe that I loved him; if he does believe it, he will believe the truth.' I did believe it; I felt that it was true. I asked myself whether all the fault was his, whether he was entirely to blame because it was not in his nature to show love in its sweetest way. I recalled the words he had used when he described to me and my mother the home in which he spent his childhood's days. I raised up a picture of his mother, a weak-minded woman, ruled as with a rod of iron by her husband, ruled even in her affections by a man whom his own son could not respect, knowing him to be a hypocrite. The son must have learned bad lessons in such a home. Was it not to the son's credit that he refused to be moulded by such influences? But if the son had had such a mother as mine----