o '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."

This letter roused in Mercy most conflicting emotions. Wounded feeling at
its coldness, a certain admiration for its tone of immovable resolution,
anger at what seemed to her Stephen's unjustifiable resentment of her
effort to influence his action,--all these blended in one great pain which