Dalhousie, having effected the object which brought him to the library, soon grew tired of the planter’s arguments, and edged towards the door, through which he rather rudely made his exit.

Jaspar again relapsed into the moody melancholy from which the presence of the overseer had roused him.  Sinking back into his chair, he again was a prey to the armed fears that continually goaded him.  Occasionally he roused from his stupor, and, driven by the startling apparition of future retribution, paced the room in the most intense nervous excitement.  Frequent were the stops he made at the brandy-bottle on the table; but, for a time, even the brandy-fiend refused to comfort him,—­refused to excite his brain, or pour a healing balm upon his consuming misery.  Again he sunk into his chair, overcome by the torture of his emotions, and again the gnawing worm forced him to the bottle, until, at last, nearly stupefied by the liquor, he slumbered uneasily in his chair.  But the terrible apparition, which seldom left him when awake, was constant in his dreams; and, just as he was about to plunge into the awful abyss that always yawned before him, he awoke, and staggered to the bottle again.  A gleam of consciousness now visited his inebriated mind, and he bethought himself of retiring.  With a dim sense of his usual precaution, he reeled to the secretary, and attempted to lock the drawers.  He discovered that one key was missing; but, too much intoxicated to reason upon the circumstance, he took another draught of brandy, and ambled towards his sleeping-room.  He was too far gone to effect a landing at the head of the stairs, and fell full-length upon the floor when he released his hold of the banister.

Dalhousie was still up, and his knowledge of Jaspar’s habits enabled him to judge the occasion of the noise he heard, and he immediately hastened to the rescue.  “Lucky!” muttered he, as he lifted the fallen man.  “He must have been intoxicated when he examined those papers, or he would have seen that letter.”

Jaspar, who had not entirely lost his senses, muttered something about an accident, and clung closely to his companion, who soon deposited him on his bed.

The overseer, instead of returning to his room, descended to the library, where the light was still burning.  Locking the door, he seated himself in the large stuffed chair, and drew from his pocket the letter he had purloined from the secretary.  Opening it, he proceeded to a re-perusal of it.  The letter was as follows: 

“MY DEAR CHILD:—­When you read this letter, your father will be no more.  The last act of affection will have been performed, and the ground closed over your only earthly protector.  I am aware that you will be exposed to many trials and temptations.  The latter you are, I trust, prepared to resist; the former must come to all.  I feel that I have done my duty to you, not only in bestowing an abundance of this world’s goods, but that I have not