“Mercy,—­I am sorry that any thing in my last letter should have led you to suppose that under the existing circumstances you could control my actions.  All I said was that I might, for the sake of your peace of mind, give up this money, if it were not for my obligations to my mother.  It was a foolish thing to say, since those obligations could not be done away with.  I ought to have known that in your overwrought frame of mind you would snatch at the suggestion, and make it the basis of a fresh appeal.

“Now let me say, once for all, that my mind is firmly made up on this subject, and that it must be dropped between us.  The money is mine, and I shall keep it.  If you think it your duty to ‘inform the authorities,’ as you say, you must do so; and I would not say one word to hinder you.  I would never, as you do in this case, attempt to make my own conscience the regulator of another’s conduct.  If you do regard me as the possessor of ‘stolen money,’ it is undoubtedly your duty to inform against me.  I can only warn you that all you would gain by it would be a most disagreeable exposure of your own and my private affairs, and much mortification to both of us.  The money is mine beyond all question.  I shall not reply to any more letters from you on this subject.  There is nothing more to be said; and all prolonging of the discussion is a needless pain, and is endangering the very foundations of our affection for each other.  I want to say one thing more, however; and I hope it will impress you as it ought.  Never forget that the strongest proof that my conscience was perfectly clear in regard to that money is that I at once told you of its discovery.  It would have been perfectly easy for me to have accounted to you in a dozen different ways for my having come into possession of a little money, or even to have concealed from you the fact that I had done so; and, if I had felt myself a thief, I should certainly have taken good care that you did not know it.

“I must also thank you for your expressions of willingness to take care of my mother, in case of any thing’s happening to me.  Until these last letters of yours, I had often thought, with a sense of relief, that, if I died, you would never see my mother suffer; but now any such thought is inseparably associated with bitter memories.  And my mother will not, in any event, need your help; for the money I shall have from the sale of the house, together with this which I have found, will give her all she will require.

“You must forgive me if this letter sounds hard, Mercy.  I have not your faculty of mingling endearing epithets with sharp accusations and reproaches.  I cannot be lover and culprit at once, as you are able to be lover and accuser, or judge.  I love you, I think, as deeply and tenderly as ever; but you yourself have made all expression of it impossible.  Stephen.”