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neighbouring mews came two policemen； and at the same moment out
came the barman to the assistance of Andrew。 But Falconer was as
well known to the police as if he had a ticket…of…leave； and a good
deal better。
'Call a four…wheel cab；' he said to one of them。 'I'm all right。'
The man started at once。 Falconer turned to the other。
'Tell that man in the apron；' he said； 'that I'll make him all due
reparation。 But he oughtn't to be in such a hurry to meddle。 He
gave me no time but to strike hard。'
'Yes； sir；' answered the policeman obediently。 The crowd thought he
must be a great man amongst the detectives； but the bar…keeper vowed
he would 'summons' him for the assault。
'You may； if you like；' said Falconer。 'When I think of it； you
shall do so。 You know where I live？' he said； turning to the
policeman。
'No； sir； I don't。 I only know you well enough。'
'Put your hand in my coat…pocket； then； and you'll find a card…case。
The other。 There！ Help yourself。'
He said this with his arms round Andrew's； who had ceased to cry out
when he saw the police。
'Do you want to give this gentleman in charge； sir？'
'No。 It is a little private affair of my own； this。'
'Hadn't you better let him go； sir； and we'll find him for you when
you want him？'
'No。 He may give me in charge if he likes。 Or if you should want
him； you will find him at my house。'
Then pinioning his prisoner still more tightly in his arms； he
leaned forward； and whispered in his ear；
'Will you go home quietly； or give me in charge？ There is no other
way； Andrew Falconer。'
He ceased struggling。 Through all the flush of the contest his face
grew pale。 His arms dropped by his side。 Robert let him go； and he
stood there without offering to move。 The cab came up； the
policeman got out； Andrew stepped in of his own accord； and Robert
followed。
'You see it's all right；' he said。 'Here； give the barman a
sovereign。 If he wants more； let me know。 He deserved all he got；
but I was wrong。 John Street。'
His father did not speak a word； or ask a question all the way home。
Evidently he thought it safer to be silent。 But the drink he had
taken； though not enough to intoxicate him； was more than enough to
bring back the old longing with redoubled force。 He paced about the
room the rest of the day like a wild beast in a cage； and in the
middle of the night； got up and dressed； and would have crept
through the room in which Robert lay； in the hope of getting out。
But Robert slept too anxiously for that。 The captive did not make
the slightest noise； but his very presence was enough to wake his
son。 He started at a bound from his couch； and his father retreated
in dismay to his chamber。
CHAPTER XIV。
THE BROWN LETTER。
At length the time arrived when Robert would make a further attempt；
although with a fear and trembling to quiet which he had to seek the
higher aid。 His father had recovered his attempt to rush anew upon
destruction。 He was gentler and more thoughtful； and would again
sit for an hour at a time gazing into the fire。 From the expression
of his countenance upon such occasions； Robert hoped that his
visions were not of the evil days； but of those of his innocence。
One evening when he was in one of these moodshe had just had his
tea； the gas was lighted； and he was sitting as I have
describedRobert began to play in the next room； hoping that the
music would sink into his heart； and do something to prepare the way
for what was to follow。 Just as he had played over the Flowers of
the Forest for the third time； his housekeeper entered the room； and
receiving permission from her master； went through into Andrew's
chamber； and presented a packet； which she said； and said truly； for
she was not in the secret； had been left for him。 He received it
with evident surprise； mingled with some consternation； looked at
the address； looked at the seal； laid it on the table； and gazed
again with troubled looks into the fire。 He had had no
correspondence for many years。 Falconer had peeped in when the
woman entered； but the moment she retired he could watch him no
longer。 He went on playing a slow； lingering voluntary； such as the
wind plays； of an amber autumn evening； on the ？olian harp of its
pines。 He played so gently that he must hear if his father should
speak。
For what seemed hours； though it was but half…an…hour； he went on
playing。 At length he heard a stifled sob。 He rose； and peeped
again into the room。 The gray head was bowed between the hands； and
the gaunt frame was shaken with sobs。 On the table lay the
portraits of himself and his wife； and the faded brown letter； so
many years folded in silence and darkness； lay open beside them。 He
had known the seal； with the bush of rushes and the Gaelic motto。
He had gently torn the paper from around it； and had read the
letter from the graveno； from the land beyond； the land of light；
where human love is glorified。 Not then did Falconer read the
sacred words of his mother； but afterwards his father put them into
his hands。 I will give them as nearly as I can remember them； for
the letter is not in my possession。
'My beloved Andrew； I can hardly write； for I am at the point of
death。 I love you stilllove you as dearly as before you left me。
Will you ever see this？ I will try to send it to you。 I will
leave it behind me； that it may come into your hands when and how it
may please God。 You may be an old man before you read these words；
and may have almost forgotten your young wife。 Oh！ if I could take
your head on my bosom where it used to lie； and without saying a
word； think all that I am thinking into your heart。 Oh！ my love； my
love！ will you have had enough of the world and its ways by the time
this reaches you？ Or will you be dead； like me； when this is found；
and the eyes of your son only； my darling little Robert； read the
words？ Oh； Andrew； Andrew！ my heart is bleeding； not altogether for
myself； not altogether for you； but both for you and for me。 Shall
I never； never be able to let out the sea of my love that swells
till my heart is like to break with its longing after you； my own
Andrew？ Shall I never； never see you again？ That is the terrible
thoughtthe only thought almost that makes me shrink from dying。
If I should go to sleep； as some think； and not even dream about
you； as I dream and weep every night now！ If I should only wake in
the crowd of the resurrection； and not know where to find you！ Oh；
Andrew； I feel as if I should lose my reason when I think that you
may be on the left hand of the Judge； and I can no longer say my
love； because you do not； cannot any more love God。 I will tell you
the dream I had about you last night； which I think was what makes
me write this letter。 I was standing in a great crowd of people；
and I saw the empty graves about