knew not how--the trouble between herself and her daughter. The letter
had been sent to a firm in Dublin with which Bryan Llyn had done
business, with instructions that it should be forwarded to his sister.
It had reached the hands of a government official, who was a brother of
a member of the firm, and he had used the government messenger, who was
going upon other business to Limerick, to forward it with a friendly
covering note, which ended with the words:

The recent tragedy you have no doubt seen in the papers must have
shocked you; but to those who know the inside the end was
inevitable, though there are many who do not think Calhoun is
guilty. I am one of them. Nevertheless, it will go hard with him,
as the evidence is strong against him. He comes from your part of
the country, and you will be concerned, of course.

Sheila watched her mother reading, and saw that great emotion possessed
her, though the girl could not know the cause. Presently, however,
Mrs. Llyn, who had read the letter from her brother, made a joyful
exclamation.

"What is it, mother dear?" Sheila asked eagerly. "Tell me!"

The mother made a passionate gesture of astonishment and joy; then she
leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, with the letter--which was
closely written, in old-fashioned punctiliousness--in her hands.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she said. "How strange it all is! Your Uncle
Bryan is immensely rich. He has no children and no family; his health is
failing."

She seemed able to get no further.

"Well, what is it, mother?" asked Sheila again.

For an instant Mrs. Llyn hesitated; then she put the letter into
Sheila's hands.

"Read it, my child," she said. "It's for you as much as for me--indeed,
more for you than for me." Sheila took the letter. It ran as follows:

DEAREST SISTER:

It is eleven years since I wrote to you, and yet, though it may seem
strange, there have not been eleven days in all that time in which I
have not wished you and Sheila were here. Sheila--why, she is a
young woman! She's about the age you were when I left Ireland, and
you were one of the most beautiful and charming creatures God ever
gave life to. The last picture I have of you was a drawing made
soon after your marriage--sad, bad, unhappy incident. I have kept
it by me always. It warms my heart in winter; it cools my eyes in
summer.

My estate is neither North nor South, but farther