Oh, how Magdalen longed to go home after that, and how she wondered that Roger did not write if he really loved her, and how little she guessed that he _had_ written long ago, and that her father had kept the letter from her. To this act Mr. Grey had been prompted by a feeling he did not himself quite understand. Against Roger as a man he had nothing, but he did not think it right that his daughter should marry the son of the woman whose early death had been indirectly caused by himself. Had he known how strong was Magdalen’s love for Roger he would never have withheld the letter, for, if possible, Magdalen was dearer to him now than Alice, and he studied her happiness in everything. But she never spoke of Roger, and he hoped that time and absence would weaken any girlish affection she might have cherished for him. So when the letter came, and he saw it was from Schodick, he put it away unopened, and Magdalen knew nothing of it until long after Roger had ceased to expect an answer, and hope was nearly or quite extinct in his heart. Perhaps she would not have known of it then if death had not invaded their family circle and laid his grasp upon her father, who died in Germany, in a little village on the Rhine. His death was sudden to all but himself. He had long known that he suffered from heart disease, which might kill him at any moment, and as far as his worldly affairs were concerned, he was ready. Every debt in America had been paid, every business matter arranged, and his immense fortune divided equally between his two daughters, with the exception that to Magdalen he gave thirty thousand dollars more than he gave to Alice, this being just the amount of poor Laura’s property. He was sick only a day or two and able to talk but little, but he spoke to Magdalen of Roger Irving, and told her of the letter withheld and where to find it, and said to her faintly and at long intervals, “Forgive me, if I did wrong. I thought it would be better for the families not to come together. I hoped you might forget him if you believed yourself forgotten, but I see I was mistaken. I am sorry now for the course I pursued. I would like to see the boy, or man he is now. I saw him once when a little child. Jessie wanted to take him with her, but I refused. I hated him, because he was hers and not mine. I hated all the Irvings. I took Alice from New Haven because I feared she might fancy Frank. I do not hate them now, and when I’m dead, go back to Roger and tell him so, and tell—tell Jessie—if you see her;—yes,—tell her and Laura, too,—that I tried—I tried—to pray, and I did pray—and I hope—”