“I brought her to Millbank in December, and within the year you were born. I heard nothing of Arthur Grey. I only knew that Jessie was not happy; satins and pearls and diamonds could not drive that sad, hungry look from her eyes, and I took her for a change to Saratoga, and there she met the villain again, and as the result she left Millbank to go with him to Europe. In a few days she was drowned, and her letter written on the ‘Sea Gull’ was sent to me by that accursed man who, when she tried to escape him, followed her to the ship bound for Charleston. I believe that part, and a doubt of your legitimacy never entered my heart until Walter’s wife put it there. I had made my will, and given nearly all to you, when Helen, who was here a few months ago, began one day to talk of Jessie, very kindly, as I remember, and seemed trying to find excuses for what she called her sin, and then said she was so glad that I had always been kind to the poor innocent boy who was not to blame for his mother’s error. I came gradually to understand her, though she said but little which could be repeated, but I knew that she doubted your legitimacy, and she gave me reason to doubt it too, by hinting that Arthur Grey had been seen in Belvidere more than once after Jessie’s marriage. Her husband, Walter, was her informant; but she had promised secrecy, as he wished to spare me, and so she could not be explicit. But I had heard enough to drive me mad with jealousy and rage, and I made another will, and gave you little more than the Morton farm, which, when Jessie’s father died, as he did the day when you were born, I bought to please your mother. I was wild with anger when I made that will, and my love for you has ever since kept tugging at my heart, and has prevented me from destroying the first will, as I twice made up my mind to do. To-day I have read your mother’s letter again, and I have forgiven Jessie at last, though Helen’s insinuations still rankle in my mind. But I have repented of leaving you so little, and have sent for young Schofield to change my last will, and make you equal with Frank. “Perhaps I may never see you again, for something about my heart warns me that my days are numbered, and what I do for you must be done quickly. Heaven forgive me if I wronged your mother, and forgive me doubly, trebly, if in wronging her I have dealt cruelly, unnaturally by you, my darling, my pride, my boy, whom I love so much in spite of everything; for I do, Roger, I certainly do, and I feel even now that if you were here beside me, the sight of your dear face would tempt me to burn the later will and reacknowledge the first.