"To bear out the docket that was written by Robert Thornton," I answered, "and to snap the love and the engagement between us like a withered twig, by making you believe that my father had killed your father, and the parricidal drops would stain the hand which you clasped in mine at the altar. Then you did believe it, Bessy?" "I did, indeed," she answered. "But where you have twice saved my life, Richard, where you have risked your own to do it--where you have been so kind, so noble, so generous, surely, surely, the barrier is broken down, the stain wiped out, and my father himself may look down and bless us. Oh, do not gaze at me so! Tell me--tell me what you mean! What do your looks mean? Is it not so? Is not this letter true?" "No, no, no! Bessy," I answered. "With the interpretation put upon it, and that small word, 'Sir,' added, it is not true! My father, Sir _Henry_ Conway, was never in America in his life; though my uncle, Major Richard Conway, was. My father died only thirteen years ago. My uncle, Richard Conway, was drowned in Chesapeake Buy, some nineteen or twenty years ago. Richard Conway was the youngest son, and never inherited the baronetcy. That word '_Sir_' was introduced solely to make you believe he was my father. Cast all feelings of doubt and hesitation from your mind, my beloved. My uncle, it is true, may have killed your father for aught I know; for I never heard of the fact till now: but, believe me, my father was as innocent of your father's blood as I am; and I have every reason to believe, from what I have heard this day, that my uncle would have been as innocent also, if it had not been for the base and treacherous conduct of old William Thornton, who was your father's second, and who would not suffer an honourable explanation to take place. "And now, my beloved Bessy, have I not kept my word with you? Have I not extracted from this letter--which was meant to poison your peace, to divide you from a man who truly loved you, or to render your union with him a wretched one--the antidote to its own venomous insinuations?" Bessy did not answer. Some minutes before, while I was clearing away cloud after cloud from her mind, and she had hidden her face upon my bosom, I thought that I felt her heart beating violently; but now she was quite silent and still--so still that, for a moment, I thought she had fainted. I raised her head gently, and saw that the tears were flowing fast from her eyes. She wiped them away hastily; and through the drops beamed a bright smile, telling me they were not drops of sorrow. She hid her face again; but I heard her murmur,-- "They have come at last, Richard--they have come at last, and will bring relief--do not wish me to check them: they are full of joy and comfort." "Then weep on, dearest," I said; "and may you never shed any but such tears as these." Gradually she grew more composed, and looked up, saying,--