"Nothing, my dear Miss Lee; I ask nothing, and accuse no one further than is necessary to my own exculpation," said Mrs. Dennison, in a grieved voice. "But I have been cruelly assailed. One word more, Mr. Lee, and I am ready to go. Forgive me if I speak on a subject painful to us all; but the death of your wife has been alluded to in that infamous paper--alluded to in connection with myself. When Mrs. Lee was taken ill, she had in her hand a letter, which only left her hold in the last moment. It was open. You may remember I picked it up from the floor, folded it, and gave it into your own hands. Of course, I did not read the letter, and am, to this day, ignorant of its contents; but I did glance at the handwriting, and it was like this." I felt myself growing cold; the faces before me swam in mist. Had not Lottie said that the envelope was directed in Jessie's handwriting? Had I not myself recognized the fact? Mrs. Dennison spoke again:-- "Another thing has haunted me since that mournful day. As I bent over the dying angel, she whispered three words in my ear; they were: 'Read the letter.' Sir, there is a connection between this and the letter which your wife held in her grasp when she died. I entreat, nay, I demand, that you tell me what the connection is." "The letter!" said Mr. Lee, with a start. "She did hold a paper, and you gave it to me, I remember. It is here; I had no heart to read it." Thrusting a hand beneath his vest, he drew forth a small pocket-book, and took from it the paper which I remembered so well. It was crushed and had been hastily folded; but even from the distance I could see that the handwriting was that of the note I had just read. In Mr. Lee's eyes alone you saw the agony of astonishment that possessed him. At last he turned his gaze from the letter and fixed it on Jessie. She was greatly disturbed--the very sight of the paper in her father's hand was enough for this; but she met his glance with a mournful look. There was neither terror nor surprise in it; simply deep sorrow, such as springs from a renewal of painful memories. He walked toward her with the paper in his hand, touched it with his finger, and tried to speak, but could not--the anguish that locked his features chained his voice also. Jessie was frightened and sprang up. "Father, father! what is the matter? What have I done?" He laid his hand heavily on the paper, and bent his white face toward her. "Jessie Lee, you have slandered the father that loved you better than his own life. You have killed your mother!" CHAPTER LXI. THE DEPARTING GUEST.