My Dear Father,--Surprised though you've never been at my numerous bad acts, you will be now at what I am about to confess. For more than a week I have been covering up a shortage in my account which amounts to more than you can afford to lose without warning. I am five thousand dollars behind, and am absolutely unable to replace it. I shall make no excuses. Being your son gave me no right to the money, but taking it at a time when I believed it would save me in a certain speculation in futures, I told myself that I had the right, as your son and heir, to borrow it. That I looked at it that way, and was half intoxicated at the time the deed was committed, is all that I can say by way of palliation of my offence. You once said to me that if I ever did anything of this sort that you would turn me over to the law exactly as you would any stranger, and I understand you well enough to know that you will keep your word. You would do it in your anger, even if you regretted it afterward; so, father, I am leaving home to-night, never to return. Don't think I am taking any more of your money, either, for I am not. I am leaving without a penny. I don't know where I shall go, but I am starting out into the world to try to begin life anew. You have always contended that my hopes of inheriting your savings was the prime cause of my failure, and that had I been forced to struggle for myself, as you had to do as a young man, I should have known the true value of money. I believe you are right, and to-night, as I am leaving, a certain hope comes to me that maybe there is enough of your sterling energy in me to make a man of me _eventually_. Perhaps it won't count much with you for me to say that I am going to try to be straight and honorable from now on. You never have had faith in my promises, but you have never seen me tried as I shall be tried. I know how much I owe you to a cent, and as fast as I earn money--if I _can_ earn any--it shall be sent back to you, and, if I live, I shall wipe out the debt which now stands against me. I wish I could put my arms round your neck to-night and beg your forgiveness before I go, but you'd not trust me. In your fury over your loss you'd not give me the chance I must have to redeem myself, and this is the only way. But, oh, father, _do, do_ give me this last chance! For the sake of my mother's memory, and your name, which I have tarnished, don't try to hunt me down like a common thief! I want one more opportunity. _Do, do_, give it to me! Good-bye. Frederic. Folding the sheets on which he had written, Walton put them into an envelope and placed it on his father's desk. He was now ready to go, but paused again. “I can't write to Margaret,” he said. “I have promised not to. Her brother will tell her enough, anyway, to make her ashamed that she ever knew me; but there is poor Dora--my dear, trusting friend. I must not go without a line to her.” He seated himself again, and wrote as follows: