till this woman”—­here he pointed a scornful finger at Amabel, now shrinking in her chair—­“drove me to it by secretly threatening me with a testimony which would have made me the murderer of my mother and the lasting disgrace of a good man who alone has been without blame from the beginning to the end of this desperate affair.  She was about to speak when I forestalled her.  My punishment, if I deserve such, will be to sit and hear in your presence the reading of the letters still remaining in the coroner’s hands.”

These letters were certain ones written by Agatha to her unacknowledged son.  They had never been sent.  The first one dated from his earliest infancy, and its simple and touching hopefulness sent a thrill through every heart.  It read as follows: 

Three years old, my darling! and the health flush has not faded from your cheek nor the bright gold from your hair.

Oh, how I bless Mrs. Sutherland that she did not rebuke me when your father and I came to Sutherlandtown and set up our home where I could at least see your merry form toddling through the streets, holding on to the hand of her who now claims your love.  My darling, my pride, my angel, so near and yet so far removed, will you ever know, even in the heaven to which we all look for joy after our weary pilgrimage is over, how often in this troublous world, and in these days of your early infancy, I have crept out of my warm bed, dressed myself, and, without a word to your father, whose heart it would break, gone out and climbed the steep hillside just to look at the window of your room to see if it were light or dark and you awake or sleeping?  To breathe the scent of the eglantine which climbs up to your nursery window, I have braved the night-damps and the watching eyes of Heaven; but you have a child’s blissful ignorance of all this; you only grow and grow and live, my darling, live!—­which is the only boon I crave, the only recompense I ask.

Have I but added another sin to my account and brought a worse vengeance on myself than that of seeing you die in your early infancy?  Frederick, my son, my son, I heard you swear to-day!  Not lightly, thoughtlessly, as boys sometimes will in imitation of their elders, but bitterly, revengefully, as if the seeds of evil passions were already pushing to life in the boyish breast I thought so innocent.  Did you wonder at the strange woman who stopped you?  Did you realise the awful woe from which my commonplace words sprang?  No, no, what grown mind could take that in, least of all a child’s?  To have forsworn the bliss of motherhood and entered upon a life of deception for this!  Truly Heaven is implacable and my last sin is to be punished more inexorably than my first.