an injury. You are free to
act as you choose. What follows is not a request from me, still less a
command. It is a confidence--no more."

Roger put down the letter. His head was in a whirl. He only half heard
the notes of the tutor's sonata as they rose and fell on his ear.
Presently, with beating heart, he read on--

"You had a brother once--a namesake--whom you never saw, and perhaps
never heard of. You never mourned his loss, for he was gone before you
were born. Twenty-two years ago he was a boy of 16--a fine, high-
spirited Ingleton. Like a fool, I thought I could bring him up to be a
fine man. But I failed--I only spoiled him. He grew up wild, self-
willed, obstinate--a sorrow to his mother, an enemy to his father. The
day came when we quarrelled. I accused him unjustly of fraud. He
retorted insolently. In my passion I struck him, and he struck back. I
fought my own boy and beat him; but my victory was the evil crisis of my
life, for he left home vowing he would die sooner than return. His
mother died of a broken heart. I had to live with mine; too proud to
repent or admit my fault. Then came a rumour that the boy was dead. I
never believed it; yet wrote him off as dead. Now, as I near my end, I
still discredit the story; I am convinced he still lives. In that
conviction, I have made a new will, which is the paper enclosed. As you
will see, it provides that if he should return before you attain your
majority, he becomes sole heir to the property; if not found before that
time, the will under which you inherit all remains valid. You are at
liberty to keep or destroy this new will as you choose. Nor, if you
keep it, are you bound to do anything towards finding your lost brother.
But should you desire to make inquiries, I am able to give you this
feeble clue--that, after leaving home, he went to the bad in London in
company with a companion named Fastnet, but where they lived I know not.
Also, that the rumour of his death came to me from India. I can say no
more, only that I am his and your loving father,--

"Roger Ingleton."

Towards the end the writing became very weak and straggling, and what to
the boy was the most important passage was well-nigh illegible. When,
after reading it a second time, he looked up, it was hard to believe he
was the same Roger Ingleton who, a few minutes since, had broken the
seal of that mysterious letter. The tutor, lost in his music, played
on; the sun s