"My dear David,—My husband, forgive me. I have done wrong, but I meant to do right. They said words of you,—on our mountain, David,—words I hated; and I lied to them and came to you. I told them you had sent for me. I did it to prove to them that what they were saying was not true. I took the money you gave me and came to England, and now God has punished me, and I am going back. I know you will be surprised when I tell you how wrong I have been. I would not write you I had borne you a little son, because I did not want you to come back to America for his sake, but for mine. My heart was that proud. Oh! David, forgive me." David's face grew pale, and the paper trembled in his hand, but he read eagerly on.
"My heart cries to you all the time. He is yours, David; forgive me. He is very beautiful. He is like you. Your sister held him in her arms, and I kissed her for love of you, but she did not know why. She did not guess the beautiful baby was yours—your very own. Your mother saw him, but she did not guess he was hers—her little grandson. I took him away quickly. They might have kept him if they knew. You will let me have him a little longer, won't you, David? When he is older, you will have to take him home and educate him, but now—now—he is all I have of you. Soon the terrible ocean will be between us again.
"It will be just the same in your home now as if I had never come. I did not say I was your wife—for you had not—and I would not tell them. I want you to know this, so nothing will be