"O, I hope you will!" exclaimed Kate. "I heard Tom tell my uncle that he had given him all the money he wanted," I added. "What do you suppose that means?" "I suppose your uncle has given up the property to Tom," replied Bob. "Tom lives in Philadelphia--don't he, Kate?" "I think he does; indeed I am pretty sure of it," she answered. "I can't see how they have managed the business without discovery. My father must have had some friends who knew about his affairs." "And your mother, too," added Bob. "I don't see through it; but I suppose you will understand it one of these days." "Bob, I don't like to carry this will round with me. I may lose it, or Tom Thornton may get it away from me. I want you to take it. Give it to your father, and ask him to keep it safe for me. And when I want a powerful friend, I shall call upon him." "You may be sure he will do all he can for you," said Bob, heartily, as he carefully deposited the precious document in his pocket. "What else have you, Ernest?" "Here is a letter directed to 'Robert G. Bunyard, London,'" I replied, producing it. "I wouldn't open that yet. What else have you?" "Here are half a dozen letters," I added, opening one of them. "What does it say?--read it," said Bob, impatiently. I read it, and it proved to be an acknowledgment of the receipt of two hundred pounds, signed by Bunyard. Four others were of similar import, and all of them were dated in different years. The sixth began in the same manner, acknowledging a like sum of money. It was dated three years back. I read aloud, with intense emotion, a few lines that followed the business matter. "'The poor lady is much more quiet and contented in her new home than she was at my last writing, and her physician hopes that she will soon be quite reconciled. She persists in declaring that she is entirely well, and wishes to return to America. She says nothing now about the melancholy death of her son, and we hope that good nursing and skilful treatment will eventually restore her, at least, to her ordinary degree of health.'" "My poor mother!" I exclaimed, bursting into tears, and crushing the letter in my hand. "How sad!" said Kate. "I must go to her at once! I will find her, if I have to search through the earth for her!" I ejaculated, bitterly, as I wiped away my tears. "Did you think my uncle was such an infernal villain?" "I did not, Ernest; but don't be distressed about it. The letter intimates that she is kindly treated." "I hope she is." "Have you any more papers, Ernest?" asked Bob, apparently as much with the intention of turning my thoughts away from the sad subject which agitated me, as of gratifying his own curiosity. "That's all, Bob," I replied, taking from my pocket the piece of newspaper in which I had rolled up the money I had taken from the safe. "Was it stealing for me to take this money?" I asked, as I unrolled the bills.