"I write without knowing to whom I am writing," began the paper, "except that among the readers must be some whom I have wronged. I can scarcely crave forgiveness of them, because they will surely not grant it to me. I don't know even that I can crave it of Heaven, for I have played with sacred things, and used a power given me for good, in an evil way, to further my own devices, and, after all, I have not furthered them. I am a man loving and unloved, one who has perhaps thrown away his soul on the chance of winning earthly joy,--but such joy,--and has lost it. If any have ever done like me, let them pity and pardon. I appeal to them for compassion. I shall receive it nowhere else, unless it be possible, that the one for love of whom I have done the wrong will out of the kindness of her heart spare me by and by a thought of pity for what was the suggestion of a moment and acted on--" "Skip all that maundering," interrupted Stephen. "To the point. Who is this man, and what has he done? Let him keep his feelings to himself, or if they concern you, they don't us." "No, no, Stephen. Fair play," called out Governor Wentworth. "Let us hear every word, then we can judge better of the case, and of the writer's truthfulness." "Yes, you are right," answered the young man pressing Katie's arm more firmly in his own to give silent vent to his impatience and his defiance. "And acted on without premeditation," resumed Master Shurtleff. "I left England early in the spring, and coming to this worthy city of Portsmouth with letters of introduction to Master Archdale, and others, I met the beautiful Mistress Archdale. From the first hour my fate was sealed; I loved her as only a man of strong and deep emotions can love, with a very different feeling from the devotion her young admirers gave her, ardent though they considered themselves. I had many rivals, some the young lady herself so disapproved that they ceased troubling me, even with their presence at her side. Among the others were only two worthy of attention, and only one whom I feared. I was reticent and watched; it was too soon to speak. But as I watched my fear of that one increased, for age, association, a sternness of manner that unbent only to her, many things in him showed me his possibilities of success. With that rival out of my path, my way to victory was clear. There came a day when, without lifting my finger against him, I could effectually remove him. I did it. It was unjustifiable, but the temptation rushed upon me suddenly with overwhelming force, and it was irresistible, for opposite me sat Katie, more beautiful and lovable than ever, and beside her was my rival, her cousin, with an air of security and satisfaction that aroused the evil in me. It was August; we were on the river in a dead calm, and at Mistress Archdale's suggestion had been telling stories for amusement. Mine happened to be about a runaway match, and interested the