'I could not bear it.

And the shadow which for years has been with me night and day, counselling me for bad, was growing so black, and huge, and unendurable that I must have confessed or died.

But it is gone now, or will be when I have told my brother.' 'Told your brother! Mr.Tracy--Uncle Frank--you cannot mean to do that ?' Jerrie exclaimed.
'But I do mean to do it,' Frank replied, 'as a part of my punishment, and he will not forgive as you have done.

He will turn me out at once, as he ought to do.' Jerrie thought this very likely, and with all her powers she strove to dissuade Frank from making a confession which could do no possible good, and might result in untold harm.
'Remember Maude,' she said, 'and the effect this thing would have upon her if your brother should resort to immediate and violent means, as he might in his first frenzy.' 'But, I mean to tell Maude, too,' Frank replied.
Then Jerrie looked upon him as madder than Arthur himself, and talked so rapidly and argued so well that he consented at last to keep his own counsel, for the present at least, unless the shadow still haunted him, in which case he must tell as an act of contrition or penance.
'He will think the photograph came with the other papers in the bag,' Jerrie said, as she kissed the sweet face, which looked so much like life that it was hard to think there was not real love and tenderness in the eyes which looked into hers so steadfastly.
It was the hardest to forgive the letter hidden so long, and Jerrie did feel a pang of resentment, or something like it, as she took it in her hand and thought of the day when Arthur had confided it to her, saying he could trust her when he could not another.

And she had trusted Frank, who had not been true to the trust, and here, after the lapse of years, was the letter, in her hands, with its singular superscription, covering its whole side, and its seal unbroken.