It read as follows:—­

Dear Mr. Trent,—­I should not be writing to you now if I did not believe that I now understand why you left us so abruptly on the day of the funeral, and why you were at times so strange.  You might have been a little less hard and cold even if you knew all that you did know.  But I must write now, for I shall be in San Francisco a few days after this reaches you, and I must see you and have your help, for I can have no other, as you know.  You are wondering what this means, and why I am here.  I know all and everything.  I know he is alive and never was dead.  I know I have no right to what I have, and never had, and I have come here to seek him and make him take it back.  I could do no other.  I could not live and do anything but that, and you might have known it.  But I have not found him here as I hoped I should, though perhaps it was a foolish hope of mine, and I am coming to you to help me seek him, for he must be found.  You know I want to keep his and your secret, and therefore the only one I can turn to for assistance and counsel is you.

You are wondering how I know what I do.  Two months ago I got A letter from him—­the strangest, quaintest, and yet the kindest letter—­exactly like himself and the way he used to talk!  He had just heard of his brother’s death, and congratulated me on coming into the property, and said he was now perfectly happy, and should keep dead, and never, never come to life again; that he never thought things would turn out as splendidly as they had—­for Sir William might have had an heir—­and that now he should really die happy.  He said something about everything being legally right, and that I could do what I liked with the property.  As if that would satisfy me!  Yet it was all so sweet and kind, and so like dear old Jack, that I cried all night.  And then I resolved to come here, where his letter was dated from.  Luckily I was of age now, and could do as I liked, and I said I wanted to travel in South America and California; and I suppose they didn’t think it very strange that I should use my liberty in that way.  Some said it was quite like a Dornton!  I knew something of Callao from your friend Miss Avondale, and could talk about it, which impressed them.  So I started off with only a maid—­my old nurse.  I was a little frightened at first, when I came to think what I was doing, but everybody was very kind, and I really feel quite independent now.  So, you see, a girl may be independent, after all!  Of course I shall see Mr. Dingwall in San Francisco, but he need not know anything more than that I am traveling for pleasure.  And I may go to the Sandwich Islands or Sydney, if I think he is there.  Of course I have had to use some money—­some of his rents—­but it shall be paid back.  I will tell you everything about my plans when I see you.