it before?"

"No, I never did," was the reply. "But did you know about it?"

"Oh, yes. Father told me, of course, but I had to promise that I
wouldn't say a word about it. And I didn't, did I, not even to you? I
longed to tell you all I knew, but that would not have been right."

"I wonder what that paper contains," and Lois motioned to the desk.
"It, no doubt, will explain everything. I wish your father would hurry
back."

"Here he is now," Margaret replied. "He wasn't long with Dr. Turnsell."

"I am afraid that I shall have to leave you young ladies for a while,"
Mr. Westcote informed them as soon as he had closed the door behind
him. "My lawyer wants me to go with him. It is too bad as I wished to
read that paper to you."

"Why cannot we read it ourselves?" Margaret asked. "You surely will
not keep us in suspense any longer."

"Why, certainly," was the reply. "That will do just as well. Strange
that I never thought of that. Suppose you read it, Miss Sinclair," and
he handed the manuscript to her. "I shall come back as soon as I can,
so you had better wait here until I return unless I am too late."

"Hurry up, Lois," Margaret urged, when they were once more alone. "I
can't wait another minute."

Lois was nothing loath, and in a clear, well-modulated voice she began:

"I, Simon Dockett, feeling keenly the weight of years, and knowing that
my days on earth are but few, desire to unburden my soul and make
amends as far as possible for a grievous wrong I have committed. That
wrong can never be fully rectified in this world. If money could do
it, then it would flow like water; if a troubled conscience and a
wearied and a burdened soul could atone for what I have done, then
surely I have made atonement enough. They greatly err who say that a
man can sin and yet have peace of mind. I tell you it is hell; yes,
hell here, and hell in the world to come.

"I have heaped up riches in my life, enough to satisfy the most
avaricious. But at what cost have I acquired them, and of what comfort
are they to me now? I am old, lonely, and menials serve me because of
my money. How much better are my so-called friends? They fawn upon me
with their lips, but deceit is in their hearts. They laugh at me
behind my back, and joke about 'Old Dockett' and his money. In all the
world there is none who loves me, but many who hate me. One especially
there is who desires my death, thinking that he will get my