of the letter. The cultivated female hand of the writer was, alas! well known to him. He read to himself: “To the Reverend Father Cvok, a truly Christian and humane man, in Záluz̓í.”
The priest repeated the process of scratching his elbow—as his habit was when disturbed in mind—stood up and stepped once more to the lamp. Then he took the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. It was a whole foolscap sheet, written closely, but only on the first page. The date—“Prague, 16th of May, 1868;” the signature—“Jenny Kučerová.”
All doubt was at an end now. The certainty strengthened his mind. He began to peruse the contents, and read slowly, word for word, to himself as follows:—
“I confide to you, my respected friend, a treasure I value more than my own life. I know quite well that in placing it in your honest embrace, it only goes from a mother’s arms into real, true fatherly ones. My little son—my own dear, innocent, golden boy!
“Alas! how much I would have to write, dear friend, were you to know all that presses upon my mind like a mountain of lead! Do not expect me to describe what is indescribable—my bitter experience, my pain and anger, my remorse, forlornness. His father—no, he is not worthy of he name of father; my husband, yet not my husband; a man, and not a man; that puppet in human form—yes, this is perhaps the fittest expression for him,—that puppet, bearing the name of Edmund, I have justly and deservedly thrown off; thrown off for ever, dear friend. He wanted for a time to appease me with gold, but I threw his gold at his feet. I turned him out of my poor dwelling; I did not allow him to desecrate
