_Your letter to mother was delivered to me. I opened it. I had been waiting for it a long time. I thought surely it would come, or you yourself. Mother told me it would. You could not have forgotten us for good._ _I can see from reading it that you’ve heard nothing further about us since you left, and I can explain your persistent silence better. As for you, you know now that mother is no longer with us. To have to tell you about it brings back all my suffering again, and yet I don’t want not to suffer, for it brings me nearer to her. Weep with me, my poor brother, shed many tears for all the times you have not wept. But don’t give up and despair of things, for she did not wish it._ _She left us the fourth of last April, nearly seven months ago. All winter her strength had been growing less, slowly and gently. She did not suffer; at least, she did not complain. And she never ceased from prayer. One evening, without anything to give further warning of such a sudden end, she passed on, praying. Father and I were with her. She looked at us, tried to smile, and murmured a name which we both caught, and which was yours. And then her head fell backward. That was all._ _A few days earlier she had talked to me about you, as if she were explaining her last wishes to me. I realised it later. She spoke as usual, so simply. She said to me: “Maurice will come back. He is more unfortunate than guilty. He doesn’t know yet, and he’ll hear of it. He will need all his courage. You must promise me, when he comes back, to receive him, to reconcile him with his father, with his family, to defend him, indeed never to abandon him whatever happens.” There was no need of promising, but I promised. And so, when your letter came, I did not hesitate to open it. I am taking mother’s place, very badly, but with all my heart._ _And you ought to know this: that mamma did not believe you guilty. Neither did I. And father did not, I am sure of it. Yet he told us that weakness was a form of being guilty; and that a young man, whose family had taken care of him through all his early years and up to manhood, is not free to do anything that brings havoc on all his race. Now he doesn’t talk about you, ever. I suspect that he thinks about you often, and that it gives him great pain. Be considerate of him, Maurice, as well as of our mother, who is at rest. He has changed, very much. He had so much youth in his gait, his expression, his voice, and he grew old in a few days. He works without any rest. He forgets his misfortunes in his work. But I promised not to reproach you with anything. Nevertheless, you ought surely to be told what has become of us all, not having had any news of us for more than a year. He is so well thought of that not one of his clients has withdrawn his confidence from him._