The handwriting was singular, and very elegant. I knew the letters at once. They were the somewhat affected amatory effusions of that superb woman, Mrs Causand, whom I have described in the early part of this life. They spoke of Ralph,--of Ralph Rattlin--and described, with tolerable accuracy, my singular birth at the Crown Inn, at Reading. There were three letters. The two first that I read contained merely passionate protestations of affection; the third, that had reference to myself, spoke darkly. After much that is usual in the ardent style of unhallowed love, it went on, as nearly as I can recollect, in these words--"I have suffered greatly--suffered with you, and for you. The child is, however, now safe, and well provided for. It is placed with a decent woman of the name of Brandon, Rose Brandon. A discovery now is impossible. We have managed the thing admirably. The child is fair," etcetera, etcetera. In the midst of my agitation I remarked that the writer did not speak of the infant as "my child," nor with the affection of a mother--and yet, without a great stretch of credulity, the inference seemed plain that she was the parent of it, though not a fond one. "Mysterious man! who are you, and who am I?" "Your disgraced, your discarded, yet your legitimate brother. More it suits me not now that you should know. I am weak in frame, but I am steel in purpose. You, you have been the bane of my life. Since your clandestine birth, our father loved me no more. I will have my broad acres back--I will--they are mine--and you only stand between me and them." "Desperate and degraded man!--I believe, even after this pretended confession, that you are an impostor to me, as much as you are to the rest of the world. I now understand some things that were before dark to me. My life seems to stand in your way--and your cowardice only prevents you from taking it. You tell me you are a forger--these letters are forgeries. Mrs Causand is not my mother, nor are you my brother. Pray, where did you get them?" "I stole them from our father's escritoir." "Amiable son! But I weary myself no more with your tissue of falsehoods. To-morrow we shall cast anchor. I will leave the service, and devote the rest of my life to the discovery of origin. I will learn your real name, I will trace out your crimes--and the hands of justice shall at once terminate my doubts, and your life of infamy--we are enemies to the death!" "A fair challenge, and fairly spoken. I accept it, from all my soul. You refused my hand in brotherly love; for, by the grey hairs of our common parent, in brotherly love it was offered to you--will you now take it as a pledge of a burning, a never-dying, enmity between us? It is at present emaciated and withered--it has been seized up at your detested gangway--it has been held up at the bar of justice; but it will gain strength, my brother--there, take it, sir--and despise it not."