“Well, Doctor,” said Carl, when he had grown more composed, “can we not do one thing at a time?  Can we not take the money and send it to the owners, and suffer the other matter to rest at least for the present, until we conclude how to manage it?”

“Carl,” replied the doctor, as he pushed the package toward the young man, “there is only one right way, and that is to become truly sorry for wrongdoing, and cheerfully and bravely make retribution to all parties you have injured.  Anything short of this is not fair, and will do you no good.  If I take any hand in this matter, it must be to right the whole.  But, Carl, don’t you see, you make no sacrifice in sending back the money—­money you have been unable to use?  Had you been able to use it, it might have been very different; it doubtless would have been.  Its return is not necessarily an evidence of either penitence or reform.  It is simply a confession of defeat.  A coward can give up that which he cannot use to his convenience.  And is it possible, after all you have said about being a living lie, is it possible that you are unwilling to pay any part of the price of your unfortunate actions?  Penitence is like charity.  It never counts cost.  It is a godly sorrow for sin, and is willing to accept results, be they ever so bitter.”

“Doctor,” said Carl, in complete surrender, “Let it be so.  I am willing to pay the price, even to death.  I plead no more for my own sake, but I would, if possible, save those who love me from humiliation and agony, which to them would be more terrible than death.”

“Here you mistake again,” replied the doctor.  “You imagine that your father’s pride is stronger than his love.”

“So I do,” stammered Carl.  “I believe that my father would much rather believe that his son is dead than to know that he is a criminal.  There has never been a stain on my father or mother’s name until—­until I brought this one upon it and the holy office he occupies.  Then, they have lived through the anguish of believing me to be dead, and it is terrible to think of bringing into their declining years a deeper sorrow.  Ah, believe me, Doctor, it is not my happiness I desire, but to save them from deeper pain.  If I am acting wrongly, I pray God, whom I now ask for pardon, may direct me aright.”

“I greatly fear,” replied the doctor, “that you are only willing to be directed in your own way.  But I must leave you.  The boat passes Centerville in an hour.  I will take the money and send it by express on tomorrow’s steamer.”

As has been told, the money was duly received by the cashier of the Bank of England.

As Mr. Bone opened the package, he discovered that the notes had been first wrapped in a sheet of substantial letter paper, and sealed at both ends.  As he was about to drop this wrapper into the waste basket his eye caught sight of a water mark; the letters were “C.A.  Marmion, N.Y., U.S.A.”  Thinking that this might prove important, he preserved it for future reference.  He laid it upon his desk and a few days later he wrote and mailed the following letter: