I think it was the next day but one that I received a letter from my father. The sight of his handwriting gave me a little start, for it was very rarely indeed that he was one of my correspondents when I was away from home, as he left all letter-writing, as far as I was concerned, to my mother, who had rather an old-fashioned love of it, in consequence of which, what she wrote was always interesting. "I hope mamma is not ill," I thought, as I opened the envelope; fortunately I was alone at the time, for the contents of the sheet before me were indeed surprising. I have it still, so I think I will here transcribe at least some part of it. To begin with, it was headed, "Private and confidential," which, had I been less disinterestedly engrossed at once by the nature of the communication, would have filled me with no little pride, for my father, though in his heart he had a high respect for sensible women, was rather chary of allowing that many such existed. "My dear child," it went on, "after some consideration, I have made up my mind to confide to you--I may almost say consult you about--a rather strange occurrence. Do you remember some little time before you left home asking me if I knew anything of a certain `Ernest Fitzmaurice,' whom you had heard casually referred to? You did not even know if he were a member of our own family or not; you gave me no special reason for the inquiry, and after telling you the little I remembered about the man in question (always supposing that it was the same individual), I thought no more of the matter, and probably never should have done so again, but for what I have to tell you. I received yesterday a letter written to dictation, but signed by the owner of the name, _i.e._ Ernest Fitzmaurice himself. Its contents are in a sense private, though the writer in no way debars me from acting upon them--in fact, that I should do so, and that without delay, is the motive of his communication. The letter is dated from an hotel at Liverpool, where he has recently arrived, and where he is delayed by serious, indeed he hints probably fatal illness. He has been in bad health for some time, but in no anticipation of anything sudden, so came over from Australia to prosecute certain inquiries leading to the reparation of a terrible wrong which he committed many years ago in this country. Of this wrong he gives me a rough idea, but reserves details till we meet, or at least till he receives a reply to his letter. It may seem strange that he has picked me out, distant relation as I am, for his confidence, but this he explains satisfactorily enough, his own immediate family having to a great extent died out, and such as remain very difficult to trace, whereas we, from our long residence in the same spot, and my county position, were easily found. The man is not poor--rather, I should infer, very rich. He has a wife and family in the colonies, known and