Here is a very serious reason, my dear sisters, why at last, after an absence of twenty years in America. I am confiding to you this strange secret in the life of our beloved and lamented father, and of the old house where we were children together.

The truth is, if I read rightly the countenances of my physicians are they whisper to each other by the window of the chamber. In there, I am lying, that only a few days of this life remain to me. It is not right that this secret should die with me, my dear sisters. It will seem terrible to you, as it has to me. But it will enable you to account for what must have seemed to you to be strange inconsistencies in his character. That this secret was revealed to me was due to my indolence and childish curiosity.

For the first, and the last, time in my life I listened at a keyhole. With shame and a hotly chiding conscience I yielded to that insatiable curiosity. And when you have read these lines you will understand why I do not regret that inexcusable, furtive act. I was only a lad when we went to live in that odd little house.