I had nearly finished the letter to John that I was to leave on the writing-desk, when just then the maid came up to my room with a telegram.

It was for John, but I thought it my duty to open it and read it for him before I left.

And I nearly fainted when I saw that it was from a lawyer in Bermuda--of all places--and it said that a legacy of two hundred thousand dollars had been left to John by an uncle of his who had died there, and asking for instructions about the disposition of it.
A great wave seemed to sweep over me, and all the wicked thoughts that had been in my mind--for I saw now that they _were_ wicked--were driven clean away.

I thought how completely lost poor old John would feel if all this money came to him and he didn't have to work any more and had no one at his side to help and guide him in using it.
I tore up the wicked letter I had written, and I hurried as fast as I could to pack up a valise with John's things (my own were packed already, as I said).

Then presently John came in, and I broke the news to him as gently and as tenderly as I could about his uncle having left him the money and having died.