all his joys, he begged of her to read it for him aloud.
Sir Henry began by sayings that, doubtless, when the money from the écritoire had been missed, from a coincidence of circumstances, it was not improbable that suspicion had fallen upon himself. Mean, despicable to a degree, must such an action have appeared, and never on his own account could he have thus exposed himself to its infamy. Sooner, for his part, would he have endured the tortures of the rack, or the horrors of famine. It was and could be for no other motive than to relieve misery in a most aggravated shape—one dearer to him than all the world,—to rescue from ruin and desperation a helpless woman and a sister, that this act, apparently so selfish and unprincipled, had been committed. But let it not be imagined even for a moment that she was accessory to the deed or should be a partaker of its shame. He knew not even whether, next to the crime itself, he had ever had greater cause for regret than in having communicated to her sensitive and delicate soul the shock of an after discovery. He almost despaired of her forgiveness, who best knew and could best appreciate the circumstances, under whose extenuating plea, only
