At last, after a long time, a letter from her brother, the stay-at-home, the faithful one; their father is dead; is dead,--without speaking of her; the property is to him left, the faithful son.

It is finished, it is concluded, the earth is shut down over the old man, and no more is to say.
"With what tender, what loving words this cruel news tells itself, needs not to repeat to a person so of feeling as yourself, Sir Scraper.
Zenobia, sad woman, believes what she is told; bows her head, gathers to her closer her husband and her son, and waits the good time when God shall make to her good old father the clear knowledge that she has always loved him.

Ah, yes, my faith! "Now, in a year, two years, I know not, what arrives?
A letter, old and worn; a letter soiled, discoloured, of carrying long in a sailor's pocket, but still easily to be read.

This letter--shall we guess, Sir Scraper?
Well, then, from her father! The old man in secret, in fear, lying on his bed of death, makes come by stealth a neighbour, kindly disposed to him; makes write by his hand this letter; makes draw up besides, it may be, other papers, what do we know?
"Ah! but remain quiet, dear sir.

Grieved that I do not interest you, I must still pray of your presence, that you do not yet withdraw it.
Ancient fish-skin, do I tie thee in thy chair?
"So! that is well, and you will remain quiet, Senor, with a thousand pardons! "This letter, then, it is one to wring the heart.