Walter read it, and his eyes filled with tears. Busy thoughts chased
one another through his brain, and very sad and humbling thoughts they
were. He understood now much that had once seemed strange in Amos. He
began to appreciate the calm and deep nobility of his character, the
tenacity of his grasp on his one great purpose. He gave back the letter
to his father with downcast eyes, but without making any remark upon it.

And now, what was to be done? As soon as breakfast was over, the three,
by Mr Huntingdon's desire, met in the library. The letter was laid on
the table before them, and the squire opened the discussion of its
contents by saying to his sister, "What do you make out of this
miserable business, Kate?"

"Plainly enough," was her reply, "poor Julia is in great distress. I
gather that her cruel and base husband has been removing, or intending
to remove, her two children from Amos's charge, and that she is afraid
they will be utterly ruined if they continue in their father's hands.
Poor thing! poor thing! I pity her greatly."

Her brother did not speak for a while, but two big tears fell on his
daughter's letter, as he bent over it trying to conceal his emotion.
"And what do you think about it, my boy?" he said to his son, when he
had in some degree recovered his composure.

"Aunt Kate is right, no doubt," replied Walter, "but that is not all.
It strikes me that my sister wrote the first part of this letter of her
own head, but not the last. I should not wonder if that scamp of a
fellow her husband has found her out writing, and has forced her to add
the last words, intending to bring poor Amos into trouble some way or
other."

"I believe the boy is right," said Mr Huntingdon anxiously; "but then,
what is to be the next step?"

"Surely," said his sister, "you ought to send out some one immediately
to follow up Amos, and see that no harm comes to him."

"Well, I hardly know," replied her brother; "I don't think any one would
dare to do Amos any personal injury, and I don't see that it would be
anyone's interest to do so. The last time he was called away he
returned to us all right; and perhaps he may feel hurt if we do not let
him manage things in his own way, seeing he has so nobly taken upon
himself the cause of poor--poor"--he would have said "Julia," but he
could not get out the word--"my poor child." Here the squire fairly
broke down, covering his face with his hands.

"Shall we ask