unlocked. Before turning
them over he leant back and indulged in reposeful thought. Elizabeth was
his at last and she was a girl of such good sense and kind heart that
she would be sure to like him. He was the kind of man to whom some
human object for pouring out his heart upon--were it emotive or were
it choleric--was almost a necessity. The craving for his heart for the
re-establishment of this tenderest human tie had been great during
his wife's lifetime, and now he had submitted to its mastery without
reluctance and without fear. He bent over the drawer again, and
proceeded in his search.

Among the other papers had been placed the contents of his wife's little
desk, the keys of which had been handed to him at her request. Here was
the letter addressed to him with the restriction, "NOT TO BE OPENED TILL
ELIZABETH-JANE'S WEDDING-DAY."

Mrs. Henchard, though more patient than her husband, had been no
practical hand at anything. In sealing up the sheet, which was folded
and tucked in without an envelope, in the old-fashioned way, she had
overlaid the junction with a large mass of wax without the requisite
under-touch of the same. The seal had cracked, and the letter was open.
Henchard had no reason to suppose the restriction one of serious weight,
and his feeling for his late wife had not been of the nature of deep
respect. "Some trifling fancy or other of poor Susan's, I suppose," he
said; and without curiosity he allowed his eyes to scan the letter:--

MY DEAR MICHAEL,--For the good of all three of us I have kept one thing
a secret from you till now. I hope you will understand why; I think you
will; though perhaps you may not forgive me. But, dear Michael, I have
done it for the best. I shall be in my grave when you read this, and
Elizabeth-Jane will have a home. Don't curse me Mike--think of how I was
situated. I can hardly write it, but here it is. Elizabeth-Jane is not
your Elizabeth-Jane--the child who was in my arms when you sold me.
No; she died three months after that, and this living one is my other
husband's. I christened her by the same name we had given to the first,
and she filled up the ache I felt at the other's loss. Michael, I
am dying, and I might have held my tongue; but I could not. Tell her
husband of this or not, as you may judge; and forgive, if you can, a
woman you once deeply wronged, as she forgives you.

SUSAN HENCHARD

Her husband regarded the paper as if it were a window-pane thr