It was nearly nine that night before the young lawyer finished the letter to Mrs. Fox to suit him. He dropped it in the corner letter box on his way home, and then stepped in at a restaurant to at least go through the form of eating something. “When shall I tell them at home about it?” was his one thought, and the ever recurring echo to it was, “Not yet! not yet!” Almost his greatest trial of the day was forcing himself to remain in the library a half hour after he reached the house, and trying to appear himself. He was conscious that Rex was watching him closely. But it was natural for him to plead fatigue after a hard day’s work. He locked himself in his room after he reached it. With hands tightly pressed against his forehead, he sank into a chair. “I foresaw all this,” he muttered. “I knew that I must always suffer. That what I did was done for others is no excuse; and now they must suffer, too.” He slept this night from sheer exhaustion, but the sleep was much disturbed by dreams, in all of which a white haired old lady with the face of a fox seemed to be trying to do him some bodily injury. The next day he seemed to exist for nothing but the arrival of the mails. But night came, and no response to his letter to Mrs. Fox. The following morning he tried to get up, but his head was so dizzy that he was forced to drop back on the pillow again. Fortunately he had not locked his door this time, so that when they came to inquire about him, they were able to get in. It was Roy who came first. “My mail from the office,” was all Sydney had strength to say when he saw him. “Yes, I will bring it for you,” replied Roy, and he decided to give up school for the day. The doctor was summoned again, and prescribed perfect quiet, but after he had gone, Sydney asked so persistently if Roy had come with his letters, that when he did arrive, Mrs. Pell thought that the quickest way to quiet the patient was to let him come in with them. “I only want to see one of them,” Sydney whispered quickly, as Rex took a seat by the bedside, some dozen letters in his lap. “Which one, Syd?” asked Roy, gently. “It is from an old lady—a Mrs. Fox. It will probably be in a plain envelope.” “Perhaps this is it, then. Shall I open it and see?” “No, no. Give it to me,” replied Sydney quickly. He took the envelope and the knife Roy handed to him, but his fingers trembled so that he could do nothing. “I shall have to let you open it after all, Roy,” he said, and handed them both back. Roy slit the end of the envelope in a second, and once more put it into his brother’s hands. With dilated eyes and breath coming in brief gasps, Sydney drew out the inclosure. He unfolded it and looked eagerly at the signature. “I can’t see quite clearly, Rex,” he said after an instant. “Is that Fox signed to this?” “Yes. Hannah M. Fox.” “Thank you.” Sydney turned to the front page and began to read. Suddenly he gave a little cry.