“I am on my way home and have stopped at the old farmhouse, which is more haunted than ever. Rats and noises everywhere. Some things I left have been stolen, but, for a wonder, nobody has broken into the chest. It is heavy to handle. I found it under the rafters just where I pushed it when I left. The Bible is in it and the deed, and I made up my mind to write the whole thing out and put it in the Bible, with the deed. I am sure you will find it some day. It is hardly in nature that you will not open the chest, you or your mother or sister. Bowles, the man who has had things in charge, has looked after them pretty well and knows there are women’s clothes in it,—Mrs. Crosby’s clothes, which I have taken out and aired. I shall hang the key on a little nail at the back of the chest, where it has hung for years. Somebody will find it. “Sometimes I think I’ll go back to New York and tell you everything or hunt up those Shermans and tell them. But I can’t, I can’t; so I write the story and pray God you may find it when I am gone. My lawyers have urged me to make a will, but don’t you see, I’d have to tell why the farm and the money in the bank was not mentioned. I’m a coward, but am trying to make restitution and right the wrong. The old place does not seem worth much in the present condition of the house, but, much or little, it is theirs. Forgive your old uncle, and find those girls. “AMOS MARSH.” This was the letter, and for a few minutes Alex. felt as if all power to move had left him. There was a blur before his eyes, and still the glare of sunlight hurt them, and he closed them to shut it out. Then he opened them and looked around him—at the handsome house, where he had had such good times and hoped to have more; at the stretches of pasture, where his cows were feeding; at the meadows and fields, where his men were gathering a late growth of hay, and at the wooded hills in their cool summer dress. “It is a goodly heritage, but not mine,” he said, with a groan, just as Amy came out and sat down beside him, asking why he looked so sad, and if they could not have out more of their friends now Sherry was better. “Read that,” he said, giving her the letter. She read it, growing white and rigid as she read, and saying in a whisper: “Oh, Alex., Maplehurst is not ours! It is theirs!” and she nodded towards the room where Sherry lay in a sleep which was giving back her strength, while Katy sat beside her. “Yes, it is Sherry’s,” Alex. replied, thinking only of her, and feeling the pain grow less because it was Sherry and not a stranger who was to take Maplehurst from him. “What will you do?” Amy asked, and Alex. replied, “Make reparation, of course.”