lie about some charity.

He went back to the letter. Well, it was his. Leslie had forfeited her
right to see it as soon as he. It might be mean, but it was not
dishonest. No, he would not read it now, but he would take it out and
show her that he had exercised his self-control in spite of her
shortcomings. He laid it on the desk once more. It leered at him. He
might just open the sheets enough to see the lines that began it, and
read no further. Yes, he would do that. Leslie could not feel hurt at
such a little thing.

The first line had only "Dear Brother." "Dear Brother"! Why not the
second? That could not hold much more. The second line held him, and the
third, and the fourth, and as he read on, unmindful now of what Leslie
might think or feel, his face turned from the ruddy glow of pleasant
anxiety to the pallor of grief and terror. He was not half-way through
it when Mrs. Oakley's voice in the hall announced her coming. He did
not hear her. He sat staring at the page before him, his lips apart and
his eyes staring. Then, with a cry that echoed through the house,
crumpling the sheets in his hand, he fell forward fainting to the floor,
just as his wife rushed into the room.

"What is it?" she cried. "Maurice! Maurice!"

He lay on the floor staring up at the ceiling, the letter clutched in
his hands. She ran to him and lifted up his head, but he gave no sign of
life. Already the servants were crowding to the door. She bade one of
them to hasten for a doctor, others to bring water and brandy, and the
rest to be gone. As soon as she was alone, she loosed the crumpled
sheets from his hand, for she felt that this must have been the cause of
her husband's strange attack. Without a thought of wrong, for they had
no secrets from each other, she glanced at the opening lines. Then she
forgot the unconscious man at her feet and read the letter through to
the end.

The letter was in Frank's neat hand, a little shaken, perhaps, by
nervousness.

"DEAR BROTHER," it ran, "I know you will grieve at
receiving this, and I wish that I might bear your grief for you,
but I cannot, though I have as heavy a burden as this can bring to
you. Mine would have been lighter to-day, perhaps, had you been
more straightforward with me. I am not blaming you, however, for I
know that my hypocrisy made you believe me possessed of a really
soft heart, and you thought to spare me. Until yesterday, when in a