"It was a thunder-clap. I had a great mind to wash my hands of it, and
let him go to prison. But how could I? The struggle ended in my doing
like the rest. Only poor, I had no noble kinsmen with long purses to help
me, and no solicitor-general to mediate _sub rosa._ The total amount
would have swamped my family acres. I got them down to sixty per cent,
and that only crippled my estate forever. As for my brother, he fell on
his knees to me. But I could not forgive him. _He left the country with a
hundred pounds_ I gave him. _He is in Canada; and only known there as a
most respectable farmer._ He talks of paying me back. That I shall
believe when I see it. All I know for certain is that his crime has
mortgaged my estate, and left me poor--and suspected."
While Severne related this, there passed a somewhat notable thing in the
world of mind. The inventor of this history did not understand it; the
hearer did, and accompanied it with innocent sympathetic sighs. Her
imagination, more powerful and precise than the inventor's, pictured the
horror of the high-minded brother, his agony, his shame, his respect for
law and honesty, his pity for his own flesh and blood, his struggle, and
the final triumph of fraternal affection.
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