I could easily conceive how such a letter, so designated, must have affected my dear Bessy when first she saw it. What feelings of terror and anguish, and hesitation, must have been produced in her mind when she learned to believe that she was about to give herself, heart and mind, and soul and body, to the son of one who had slain her own father. My mind, though not light, was relieved; for I knew that, by other proofs, I could show her the error easily; yet I wished to prove it to her from the letter itself, to show her the villany which had been perpetrated, and which I knew that letter, if thoroughly and properly analyzed and scanned, must display in some part. I accordingly turned to the very beginning again, and read it once more, examining every word. In the meantime, Bessy removed her hand from her eyes, weary of waiting for my long examination. She fixed them on my face, however, and not upon the letter, and at length she said, in a low and timid tone,-- "Well, Richard, was not that enough to shake and terrify, and almost drive me mad?" "It was, my love," I answered, pressing her closely to me, "and I grieve that a scoundrel should have had the power to inflict upon you such pain. You shall suffer no more on this account, Bessy; but let me go on and examine this paper more closely." "Oh, it is certainly Mr. Harcourt's handwriting," replied Bessy. "There are several more of his letters there, and I have got two or three others. I know his writing quite well." "I doubt it not," I answered; "yet there is a falsehood somewhere. Let me examine farther, dear girl." I read the first page, and part of the second, and then something struck my eye which made me pause. "Look here," dearest, I said. "This docket on the back tells you that this is a letter describing the death of Colonel Davenport--your father, I presume--by the hands of Sir Richard Conway, whom it points out as _my_ father. The docket purports to have been written when I was serving with a regiment in the presidency of Bombay. That is eight years ago, Bessy; for I exchanged almost immediately after that period, when I was merely a cornet, into a regiment in Bengal. Yet the ink seems to me exceedingly fresh. I suspect that it has not been upon the paper more than ten days. But now mark another thing. Look here at this line; you see it stands thus: 'Davenport had been killed at the first fire, and----' The line is almost full if you end with that word '_and;_' but crowded in at the end of the line is the small word 'Sir,' and then, in the next line, come the words, 'Richard Conway.' If you will remark closely the handwriting and the ink of that small word, 'Sir,' you will perceive that the one is different and the other bluer than those employed in the letter." "I see, I see!" cried Bessy, eagerly. "It _is_ different; but what object could be attained by adding that word?"