The dead body--and with it the dead years and the long probation--belonged to the past; he with his youth, his strength, his hope, was bound for the limitless future.
Without a moment's hesitation he crossed to his uncle's bureau, which stood as he had left it three days before when his last illness had seized upon him.

The papers were all in order; the ink was as yet scarcely rusted on the pens; the key protruded from the lock of the private drawer.

With a tremor of excitement John extended his hand, turned it and opened the drawer; then he caught his breath.

There lay a square white envelope addressed to himself in his uncle's fantastic, crooked handwriting.
As he drew it out and held it for a moment in his hand, his thoughts centred unerringly round one object.

In a moment, the seven years of waiting--the strange death scene just enacted--even Andrew Henderson and his mystical creed--were blotted from his mind by a wonderful rose-colored mist of hope, from which one face looked out--the patient, tender, pathetic face of the mother he adored.