My dear old friend,--You will be surprised to hear from me for the first time after all these years, and I have no valid excuse to offer. You may or may not have received the letter I wrote you telling you that I was leaving old Stafford forever. My bad conduct had driven my father to desperation, and I had grave reasons to believe that he would actually enforce the law against me. I had made up my mind to turn over a new leaf and fight it out on new lines at home, when the last straw came to break my purpose. Dear Dora, her brother Wynn approached me that very night and told me that her uncle intended positively to disinherit her if she kept faith in me. What was there for me to do? God knows I was unworthy of her, and the next morning was to bring things to light which would make her despise me; so I promised him then and there to go away and never communicate with her again. No human being ever suffered more keenly than I did at losing her, but I determined to fight my way to reformation, and by my own toil to restore to my father the funds I had misappropriated. After years of strife and hardship I have done it, and he has fully forgiven me. He has forgiven me and wants me to come home. _Home!_ Just think of it! To me old Stafford would be a heaven on earth. I think I could fall face downward in the dear old streets and kiss the very pavement. But I may not come yet. Somehow I can't, Dora. I believe most of the old town will forgive me, but she won't. I know she won't. Her ideas of honor are too high for that. The reason I am so sure is that I met her by chance in New York not long ago, and she gave me clearly to understand that I need never expect to regain her respect. I made my own case out pretty black to her brother, and I suppose he gave me my full dues in telling her about it. To my astonishment, my father told me that he had not spoken of my shortage at the bank, and that nothing had been said about it at home, but her brother told her. She got the confession straight from me, and there could be no better authority. I love her still, dear Dora, and more than ever. The very gulf between her and me has only made her the dearer. But I mustn't write so much about myself. My father says you are still unmarried. He couldn't tell me whether you had carried your painting further. I was sure it would do great things for you, and it is not too late, even yet. Another thing--I have always felt that I may have hurt your feelings past forgiveness by advising you as I did in that last letter not to trust too fully the man whom I mentioned. I now see that I had no right to go so far. You were hardly more than a child then, but you knew how to take care of yourself even with a man of the world like him, and I had no right to warn you. But I was going away, dear Dora, and I was so miserable about myself that I exaggerated your danger. I have seen by the papers that he has made a great success in life, and that old Stafford is very proud of him--