This letter he now read aloud, and Kate and the others were greatly interested therein, although they cautiously forbore the expression of any opinion which might rise in their minds regarding this turn of affairs.
Having finished these business details, Mr.Delaplaine went on and read aloud, and in the succeeding portion of the letter Mr.Newcombe begged Mr.Delaplaine to believe that it was the hardest duty of his whole life to write what he was now obliged to write, but that he knew he must do it, and therefore would not hesitate.

At this the reader looked at his niece and stopped.
"Go on," cried Kate, her face a little flushed, "go on!" The face of Mr.Delaplaine was pale, and for a moment he hesitated, then, with a sudden jerk, he nerved himself to the effort and read on; he had seen enough to make him understand that the duty before him was to read on.
[Illustration: In an instant Dickory was there.] Briefly and tersely, but with tears in the very ink, so sad were the words, the writer assured Mr.Delaplaine that his love for his niece had been, and was, the overpowering impulse of his life; that to win this love he had dared everything, he had hoped for everything, he had been willing to pass by and overlook everything, but that now, and it tore his heart to write it, his evil fortune had been too much for him; he could do anything for the sake of his love that a man with respect for himself could do, but there was one thing at which he must stop, at which he must bow his head and submit to his fate--he could not marry the daughter of an executed felon.
Thus came to that little family group the news of the pirate Bonnet's death.

There was more of the letter, but Mr.Delaplaine did not read it.
Kate did not scream, nor moan, nor faint, but she sat up straight in her chair and gazed, with a wild intentness, at her uncle.

No one spoke.

At such a moment condolence or sympathy would have been a cruel mockery.
They were all as pale as chalk.