“Now, Mr. Ibbetson, I hope you will do nothing rash—nothing that can bring my daughter’s name into any quarrel between yourself and your uncle. For the sake of your mother’s good name, you will be prudent, I know. If he could speak like this of his cousin, with whom he had been in love when he was young, what lies would he not tell of my poor daughter? He has—terrible lies! Oh, what we have suffered! When he wrote that letter I believe he really meant to marry her. He had the greatest trust in her, or he would never have committed himself so foolishly.”
“Does he know of this letter’s existing?” I asked.
“No. When he and my daughter quarrelled she sent him back his letters—all but this one, which she told him she had burned immediately after reading it, as he had told her to do.”
“May I
