“Yes—one that was never intended for _my_ eyes, but of those of a fellow conspirator.” “Conspirator, madam!” “Yes, sir. Do you surmise all the consequences of these mis-sent letters? Look at this!” she said, throwing it to him, “written by Miss Kavanagh, but directed by mistake to me. Yes, look at it! Examine the envelope! and then read the contents of the note!” Major Clifton glanced at the superscription, opened the note, and read it through with a cheek growing pale and paler—until he finished it—then tossed it from him, and burying his face in his hands groaned aloud. He had not the slightest suspicion that the infamous letter was a forgery—no!—he had not a single merciful doubt that it was the work of Catherine—nay, he would have sworn to the hand-writing, if called upon to do so in a court of justice—he would have sworn to it though Kate’s life hung upon his oath! Any one else who had ever seen her peculiar chirography would have felt constrained to do so, if requested—save two—she who lay dying at Hardbargain—and she was to know nothing about it—and he, the rejected lover, now far away, who would have cast that note aside in high disdain, and staked his honor on her truth. Clifton groaned aloud, in the bitterness of disappointed esteem. Resentment itself was swallowed up in sorrow, and he exclaimed— “Oh! would to God she had died, or _I_ had, before I knew this!” “Rejoice, rather, that you are saved!” “_Saved_, madam!” “Yes—_saved_. You will never marry her, now. You are perfectly justifiable in breaking with the unmasked traitress!” “And in shaking the last few sands in my mother’s glass of life. The discovery of that girl’s treachery has driven me to despair—it would kill my mother! No, lady! I must marry her, that my beloved mother may depart in peace.” “Marry her!” screamed Georgia, with the cry of a wounded hyena—“marry her, and sacrifice all your hopes of happiness, for the sake of keeping quiet the last few hours of a dying woman! You will not do such a thing.” “My hopes of happiness, did you say, Mrs. Clifton? Ah, lady, can you not comprehend, then, that when one at my age has discovered—beyond all possibility of doubt—the total unworthiness of one the most beloved on earth—the heart’s most cherished darling—the life’s dearest hope—” down broke his voice, and down dropped his head upon his hands—then rising, impatiently, he exclaimed—“I say, can you not comprehend that I have _no_ hopes of happiness left? I loved her so! I trusted her so! I sacrificed such strong prejudices for her! And I was as happy as a converted sinner, when the struggle was over and the sacrifice made. I could have shaken hands with her freckled-handed brother, and claimed kindred with all his rugged race! And now!—I am unmanned! I am a fool!”