"There! let me have no further heroics; that is the key of an old bureau of your father's, which you will find up stairs among the lumber. The letter is in some of the drawers. At least, don't let me have any further trouble about it. I yield to you now, only to take away from you the power of tormenting me at another time." Anne did not pause to note the ungracious manner in which her petition was granted; but laying by her work nervously, she took the key, and hurried upstairs. The old bureau, of dark carved wood, stood dusty and damp in a recess, and Anne had to draw aside boxes of mouldering papers, and articles of broken furniture, before she reached it. The picture stood in her way; she knelt down again, delaying in her very eagerness, now, that the long wished-for letter was within her reach, to look upon the portrait; so bold, and frank, and open, in its flush of manly boyhood. Was that the face of a murderer? Her fingers trembled so with haste and agitation, that she could scarcely open the many drawers, and examine their contents. In the last of all she found the letter, wrapped in a large sheet of paper, within which was something written, in the tremulous scratchy hand, which Anne knew to be her father's. With Norman's letter before her, she yet paused to read the comment of the dead--a comment which startled her into wild agitation, and still wilder hope. "To my children, Anne and Lewis Ross: "I am a dying man, and will never see either of you arrive at years to be trusted with such a secret; but I charge you, when this packet comes to your hands, to give earnest heed to it, as you value the last words of your father. I am standing in the presence of my Lord, with death at my door, a hoary-headed man, bent to the grave with trouble, and I leave to you who come after me, my solemn conviction that Norman Rutherford, your brother, is innocent of the crime laid to his charge. The whole course of his past life is before me, and my eyes are clear with looking upon death face to face. This blood is not upon Norman's hand. Listen to his own words, children; and believe with me that his words are true. A frail and stricken man, I have done nothing to clear him of the imputed guilt; but as a special heritage, I leave this work to you. His blood is in your veins; he is your nearest kindred. Children of my old age, save my son Norman! As you would have a blessing on your own youth and prosperity, remember the desolate exile in his wanderings, and clear his name and fame. My eye is waxing heavy, and my hand weak--it is the beginning of death. Anne, sole child of his mother! Lewis, heir of my name! my charge is upon you. I appeal you to the throne of Him, who, in the fulness of His glory, forgot not this fallen world, but left a heavenly kingdom to save and die for it--if you disregard the last petition my lips will ever utter