t the daughter
soothed them all.

"Now, dear mamma," she whispered, when Mrs. Rothesay was a little
composed, "we must answer the letter at once. What shall we say!"

"Nothing! That cruel man deserves no reply at all."

"Mamma!" cried Olive, somewhat reproachfully. "Whatever he may be, we
are evidently his debtors. Even Mr. Wyld admits this, you see. We must
not forget justice and honour--my poor fathers honour."

"No--no! You are right, my child. Let us do anything, if it is for
the sake of his dear memory," sobbed the widow, whose love death had
sanctified, and endowed with an added tenderness. "But, Olive, you must
write--I cannot!"

Olive assented. She had long taken upon herself all similar duties. At
once she sat down to pen this formidable letter. It took her some time;
for there was a constant struggle between the necessary formality of a
business letter, and the impulse of wounded feeling, natural to her dead
father's child. The finished epistle was a curious mingling of both.

"Shall I read it aloud, mamma? and then the subject will be taken from
your mind," said Olive, as she came and stood by her mother's chair.

Mrs. Rothesay assented.

"Well, then, here it begins--'Reverend Sir' (I ought to address him
thus, you know, because he is a clergyman, though he does seem so harsh,
and so unlike what a Christian pastor ought to be)."

"He does, indeed, my child--but, go on." And Olive read:

"'Reverend Sir--I address you by my mother's desire, to say
that she was quite unaware of your claim upon my late dear
father. She can only reply to it, by requesting your
patience for a little time, until she is able to liquidate
the debt--not out of the wealth you attribute to her, but
out of her present restricted means. And I, my father's only
child, wishing to preserve his memory from the imputations
you have cast upon it, must tell you, that his last moments
were spent in endeavouring to write your name. We never
understood why, until now. Oh, sir! was it right or kind
of you so harshly to judge the dead? My father _intended_ to
pay you. If you have suffered, it was through his
misfortune--not his crime. Have a little patience with us,
and your claim shall be wholly discharged.

"'Olive Rothesay.'"

"You have said nothing of Sara. I wonder if she knows this!" said the
mother, as Olive folded up her letter.

"Hush, mamma! Let