“Don't you think, uncle,” I dared to continue, forgetting in my love all difference of years, “that, whatever it be that troubles us, it must be better those who love us should know it? Is there some good in a secret after all?” “None, my darling,” he answered. “The thing that made me talk to you so against secrets when you were a child, was, that I had one myself--one that was, and is, eating the heart out of me. But that woman shall not know and you be ignorant! I will not have a secret with _her!_--Leave me now, please, little one.” I rose at once. “May I take the letter with me, uncle?” I asked. He rubbed his forehead with a still trembling hand. The trembling of that beloved hand filled me with such a divine sense of pity, that for the first time I seemed to know God, causing in me that consciousness! The whole human mother was roused in me for my uncle. I would die, I would kill to save him! The worm was welcome to swallow me! My very being was a well of loving pity, pouring itself out over that trembling hand. He took up the letter, gave it to me, and turned his face away with a groan. I left the room in strange exaltation--the exaltation of merest love. I went to the study, and there read the hateful letter. Here it is. Having transcribed it, I shall destroy it. “Sir,--For one who persists in coming between a woman and her son, who will blame the mother if she cast aside forbearance! I would have spared you as hitherto; I will spare you no longer. You little thought when you crossed me who I was--the one in the world in whose power you lay! I would perish ever-lastingly rather than permit one of my blood to marry one of yours. My words are strong; you are welcome to call them unladylike; but you shall not doubt what I mean. You know perfectly that, if I denounce you as a murderer, I can prove what I say; and as to my silence for so many years, I am able thoroughly to account for it. I shall give you no further warning. You know where my son is: if he is not in my house within two days, I shall have you arrested. _I have made up my mind._ “Lucretia Cairnedge. “Rising-Manor, July 15, 18--.” “Whoever be the father, she's the mother of lies!” I exclaimed.--“My uncle--the best and gentlest of men, a murderer!” I laughed aloud in my indignation and wrath. But, though the woman was a liar, she must have something to say with a show of truth! How else would she dare intimidation with such a man? How else could her threat have so wrought upon my uncle? What did she know, or imagine she knew? What could be the something on which she founded her lie?--That my uncle was going to tell me, nor did I dread hearing his story. No revelation would lower him in my eyes! Of that I was confident. But I little thought how long it would be before it came, or what a terrible tale it would prove. I ran down the stair with the vile paper in my hand. “The wicked woman!” I cried. “If she _be_ John's mother, I don't care: she's a devil and a liar!”