You may as well have it now." And he went to his desk and took out an envelope.
"It will explain itself," said he, handing it to the boy.
He sat down at the piano, and wandered over the keys, while Roger, too full of his own cares to give much heed to the missive in his hands, walked over to the window and looked out across the park.

The afternoon sun was glancing across the woods, and gleaming far away on the sea.
"If only she would share it with me," thought he to himself, "how proud I should be of the dear old place.

But what good is it all to me if she condemns me to possess it all myself ?" Then with a sigh he turned his back on the scene, and let his eyes fall on the letter.
He started as he recognised the dead hand of his father in the inscription-- "_To be given unopened into the hands of Roger Ingleton junior, on his twentieth birthday_." His breath came fast as he broke the seal and looked within.

The envelope contained two enclosures, a document and a letter.

The latter, which he examined first, was dated scarcely a fortnight before the old man's death, written in the same trembling hand as the words on the envelope.
"My dear son," it said, "this will reach you long after the hand that writes it is still and cold.