Roger bolted the door after her, for he would not be disturbed while he read these messages from the dead,—one from the erring woman who for years had slept far down in the ocean depths, and the other from the man who lay there in his coffin. He took his father’s first, but that was a mere nothing. It only read: “MILLBANK, April —. “MY DEAR BOY—For many days I have had a presentiment that I had not much longer to live, and, as death begins to stare me in the face, my thoughts turn toward you, my dear Roger——” Here came a great blot, as if the ink had dropped from the pen or the pen had dropped from the hand; the writing ceased, and that was all there was for the boy from his father. But it showed that he had been last in the thoughts of the dead man, and his tears fell fast upon his father’s farewell words. Then, reverently, carefully, gently, as if it were some sea-wrecked spectre he was handling, he took the other letter, experiencing a kind of chilly sensation as he opened it, and inhaled the musty odor pervading it. The letter was mailed in New York, and the superscription was not like the delicate writing inside. It was a man’s chirography,—a bold, dashing hand,—and for a moment Roger sat studying the explicit direction: “WILLIAM H. IRVING, ESQ., “(Millbank) “BELVIDERE, “CONN.” Whose writing was it, and how came the letter to be mailed in New York, if, as Hester had said, it had been written on board the ill-fated “Sea Gull”? Roger asked himself this question, as he lingered over the unread letter, till, remembering that the inside was the place to look for an explanation, he turned to the first page and began to read. It was dated on board the “Sea Gull,” off Cape Hatteras, and began as follows: “MY HUSBAND:—It would be mockery for me to put the word _dear_ before your honored name. You would not believe I meant it,—I, who have sinned against you so deeply, and wounded your pride so sorely. But, oh, if you knew all which led me to what I am, I know you would pity me, even if you condemned, for you were always kind,—too kind by far to a wicked girl like me. But, husband, I am not as bad as you imagine. I have left you, I know, and left my darling boy, and _he_ is here with me, but by no consent of mine. I tried to escape from him. I am not going to Europe. I am on my way to Charleston, where Lucy lives, and when I get there I shall mail this letter to you. Every word I write will be the truth, and you must believe it, and teach Roger to believe it, too; for I have not sinned as you suppose, and Roger need not blush for his mother, except that she deserted him—”