usual precaution, he reeled to the secretary, and attempted to
lock the drawers. He discovered that one key was missing; but, too much
intoxicated to reason upon the circumstance, he took another draught of
brandy, and ambled towards his sleeping-room. He was too far gone to
effect a landing at the head of the stairs, and fell full-length upon
the floor when he released his hold of the banister.

Dalhousie was still up, and his knowledge of Jaspar's habits enabled him
to judge the occasion of the noise he heard, and he immediately hastened
to the rescue. "Lucky!" muttered he, as he lifted the fallen man. "He
must have been intoxicated when he examined those papers, or he would
have seen that letter."

Jaspar, who had not entirely lost his senses, muttered something about
an accident, and clung closely to his companion, who soon deposited him
on his bed.

The overseer, instead of returning to his room, descended to the
library, where the light was still burning. Locking the door, he seated
himself in the large stuffed chair, and drew from his pocket the letter
he had purloined from the secretary. Opening it, he proceeded to a
re-perusal of it. The letter was as follows:

"MY DEAR CHILD:--When you read this letter, your father will be no
more. The last act of affection will have been performed, and the
ground closed over your only earthly protector. I am aware that you
will be exposed to many trials and temptations. The latter you are,
I trust, prepared to resist; the former must come to all. I feel
that I have done my duty to you, not only in bestowing an abundance
of this world's goods, but that I have not entirely failed to
implant in your mind the treasure 'which neither moth nor rust can
corrupt.' I have done all that I could do, and in a short time I
must lay my body in the grave, and leave you an orphan. But you are
in the hands, and under the protection, of a Father who is
infinitely more able to take care of you than I have been. Into His
hands, with my ransomed spirit, I undoubtingly commit you.

"As I write this letter, I feel the hand of death upon me. In a few
short days, it may be only hours, I must go. I am the less ready to
bid you the everlasting adieu when I think of the dangers that may
surround you. In my last hours I am doomed to the torments of
suspicion. I pray God they may be groundless. Perhaps they are o