Yes, that _was_ the reason, he believed, and in order to make the matter sure, he resolved to write again and ask her, and forgetting his father’s request that he should “come down to the office as soon as convenient,” he spent the morning in writing to Mildred a second time. He had intended to tell her that he guessed the reason of her refusal, but instead of that he poured out his whole soul in one passionate entreaty for her to think again, and reconsider her decision. No other one could love her as he did, he said, and he besought of her to give him one word of hope to cheer the despair which had fallen so darkly around him. This letter being sent, Lawrence sat down in a kind of apathetic despair to await the result. * * * * * “What, hey, the boy has written, has he?” and adjusting his gold specs, the old Judge looked to see if the eight pages Finn had just given to him were really from Lawrence Thornton. “He’s got good grit,” said he, “and I like him for it, but hanged if I don’t teach Bobum a lesson. I can feel big as well as he. Gipsy not good enough for his boy! I’ll show him. She looks brighter to-day than she did. She ain’t going to let it kill her, and as there’s no use worrying her for nothing, I shan’t let her see this. But I can’t destroy it, nor read it neither. So I’ll just put it where the old Nick himself couldn’t find it,” and touching the hidden spring of a secret drawer, he hid the letter which Mildred, encouraged by Oliver, had half expected to receive. But he repented of the act when he saw how disappointed she seemed when he met her at the supper-table, and though he had no idea of giving her the letter, he thought to make amends some other way. “I have it,” he suddenly exclaimed, as he sat alone in his library, after Mildred had gone to bed. “I’ll dock off five thousand from that missionary society and add it to Spitfire’s portion. The letter ain’t worth more than that,” and satisfied that he was making the best possible reparation, he brought out his will and made the alteration, which took from a missionary society enough to feed and clothe several clergymen a year. Four days more brought another letter from Lawrence Thornton—larger, heavier than the preceding one, crossed all over, as could be plainly seen through the envelope, and worth, as the Judge calculated, about ten thousand dollars. So he placed that amount to Mildred’s credit, by way of quieting his conscience. One week more, and there came another.