THE LOST LETTER by S. P. Brigham

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · May 12, 1881

THE LOST LETTER.

By S. P. Brigham

JACOB CARTER and Albert Harrison were merchants living in adjoining towns. The strong friendship existing between them in boyhood had not declined in manhood. Each possessed sterling traits of character, though the two men were quite unlike.

Mr. Carter was much beloved for his gentle nature and kindly qualities. The short-comings of his fellow-men were always viewed by him with a charitable eye. Mr. Harrison, on the contrary, though an honest, true man, was harsh and inflexible, and quick to condemn any deviation in others from the code of rectitude laid down for himself.

One bright morning he said to his son, as he sealed a letter he had just written:—

"Paul, I want you to carry this letter to the post-office. Don't stop on the way. It must go out on the next mail."

Paul took it, put on his hat, and went whistling down the street. On his way, he had to pass the home of Caleb Parker, his most intimate friend.

"Halloo!" called Caleb from the piazza. "I've just had a streak of luck. Uncle Roger has given me a splendid Newfoundland dog."

"Oh, that's jolly!" returned Paul, eagerly.

"Come in and see him," urged Caleb.

Paul glanced at the clock on the church steeple. It lacked a full half-hour to mail time. Thoughtless of the disobedience he was committing, he yielded to the temptation before him. A few minutes could be easily spared.

He hurried with Caleb to the shed where Rover was tied, and spent five minutes admiring and praising the "splendid puppy."

Then he continued his walk; but on reaching the post-office he found, to his great dismay, that the letter was missing.

He was sure he had carefully put it in his pocket. What should he do? He remembered pulling out his handkerchief while talking with Caleb, and thinking it was probable it fell out then, he quickly retraced his steps to Mr. Parker's house. He told Caleb his trouble, and the two made a thorough search. But the letter could not be found. Paul was in agony.

"I'd about as soon be killed as to go home and tell father. He told me not to stop by the way, and he'll whip me awfully."

"Do you know what was in the letter?" inquired Caleb, after thinking a little.

"Yes. Father wrote to Mr. Carter to send him twenty barrels of flour, to last till he gets a supply from the West."

"Then save yourself a whipping by holding your tongue. Don't say a word to your father about it. Come to my room and write another letter, and sign your father's name to it. 'Twont do any harm, and 'twill bring the flour all the same. Only keep whist."

Paul hesitated. He knew Caleb was a wrong counselor; that a frank and straightforward course was the only right one.

But he had twice been severely punished for small acts of thoughtless disobedience, and the pain of the blows was fresh in his memory.

"Well, on the whole, Caleb, I guess I'll follow your advice. I can't see what hurt it can do."

They went into the house. Paul took the offered pen and ink, and quickly wrote thus:—

"Merritown, May 9, —, "MR. CARTER—Dear Sir: I wish to purchase of you twenty barrels of good flour, to be sent immediately. A. HARRISON, per P. H."

Paul had seen his father's clerk write letters on business, and sign them in this way.

Ten minutes later he deposited the letter in the post-office and went home.

"Did you get my letter in before the mail went?" asked Mr. Harrison, as Paul entered the parlor.

"The letter was there in time," was the evasive reply.

A growing uneasiness now took possession of the boy's heart, and he really felt sorry that he had not braved his father's displeasure, and owned the truth. He had been guilty of crooked dealing, and his act (as such acts always do) left something to dread. It was too late now, he reasoned, to retrieve the mistake; but what might come of it, he could not tell. He grew more and more unhappy in thinking about it. Three days afterwards, Mr. Harrison received twenty barrels of flour from the wholesale house of Mr. Carter.

It was a great relief to Paul's mind. The letter substituted had apparently fulfilled its purpose as well as if it had been the original.

A week went by. One morning Mr. Harrison said to his wife at the breakfast table:—

"I sent a check of one hundred and fifty dollars to Mr. Carter. Don't see why it hasn't been acknowledged."

Terror and dismay instantly overspread Paul's face, and he quickly left the table. It had not before occurred to him that the lost letter held a check, which was lost too. The thought appalled him, and terrible forebodings tortured his soul.

Late in the afternoon of that day, as Paul sat alone in the library, the door-bell rang, and a moment after, he heard his father cordially greet Mr. Carter, and invite him into the parlor.

They held a low, earnest conversation together. Mr. Carter seemed to be giving some important information which astonished Mr. Harrison.

The door was closed, but occasionally part of a sentence came out distinctly to Paul's ears. He heard the words, "check;" "stolen from a letter;" "State-prison offense;" "young for such a crime."

He looked out of the window into the street, and a strong impulse seized him to flee from the house, but his limbs were powerless to act.

Suddenly Mr. Harrison opened the door.

"Paul, come here," he said. "Mr. Carter wishes to talk with you."

The boy went into the parlor, nervous and trembling. One glance at the weary, serious expression of Mr. Carter's face seemed to assure him of his coming doom. Faintly, and with a palpitating heart he returned the good man's salutation.

"I want to ask you a few questions," began Mr. Carter. "Can you tell me—why, how you shake! What's the matter?"

"Nothing—I—I don't know," stammered Paul.

"I want you to tell me all you know about—"

"O, sir," interrupted Paul quickly, "I know nothing about it! I haven't stolen the check! I didn't know there was any in the letter!"

Mr. Carter and Mr. Harrison exchanged glances in surprise.

"O father," pleaded Paul, pitifully, "I never told you a lie! never! NEVER! and I hope you'll believe me now!"

"Believe what, my son?"

"That—that—I didn't steal the check! I—I lost your letter—but—but—it held a check!" stammered Paul, with chattering teeth.

"Lost my letter! what letter? Out with the truth!" commanded Mr. Harrison.

"The one you wrote to Mr. Carter. You gave it to me to carry to the post-office. There was plenty of time before the mail closed, and I stopped a few minutes to look at Caleb's new dog. The letter was dropped somewhere, and I couldn't find it,—and—and I thought it was only an order for flour, and I wrote another and signed your name to it. I knew 'twould bring the flour all the same, and it did."

Paul began to cry.

"I received that letter and forwarded the flour at once," put in Mr. Carter.

"Go on, Paul. So you forged a letter for me. What else have you done?" asked Mr. Harrison, in a severe tone.

"That's all I have to tell,—nothing else," sobbed the boy.

"Your father's letter, with a check of one hundred and fifty dollars, came to me. I had two letters, a few days after the other," said Mr. Carter. "The lost letter had been picked up and forwarded according to its written direction." A look of mingled relief and surprise suddenly came on Paul's face.

"Why did you suspect me of stealing the check, then?" he asked, drying his tears.

"Don't see what led you to think I suspect you. What did?" questioned Mr. Carter.

"Because I heard father and you talking about a check that had been stolen from a letter, and just after that you mentioned my name."

Mr. Carter burst into a hearty laugh, and even the knitted brows of Mr. Harrison relaxed. Paul's face flushed crimson.

"You were more frightened than hurt, my boy," said Mr. Carter, laying his hand on Paul's shoulder. "Your course was not right, and guilt is a loud accuser, and is easily alarmed. No one has suspected you of stealing, Paul. I was only telling your father that Abel Phillips, the son of one of our friends, has lately forged on a stolen check, and is likely to go to prison."

"But something was certainly said about me."

"Yes; I asked to see you, to inquire about your school-mate, Ned Lee, who wants a place in my store."

Paul gave Mr. Carter all the information he wanted about his school-mate, while Mr. Harrison sat thinking. He was not quite ready to change the subject. "Paul," said he sternly, "how comes it you are so late in owning that you lost my letter?"

Paul hung his head.

" 'Twasn't right, I know, father. I hated to hide it, but I thought 'twould—'twould save me from a beating."

Paul left the room, and the merchants were again alone.

"Albert," said Mr. Carter, earnestly, "we have been friends from boyhood, and I hope you won't take offense at my plain speaking. Don't you see that you are helping to make your son a rogue?"

"A rogue! What do you mean?"

"That's what the end will be. Paul is a little thoughtless and impetuous, but a good boy in the main. It was dread of punishment, you see, that forced him to act underhanded in this thing. Encourage frankness in him by keeping him less under fear. He has taken his first lesson in artifice. God grant it may be his last."

Half an hour later Mr. Carter went away, and Mr. Harrison sat long, absorbed in thought.

A revelation had been made to him. He arose and went to Paul's room.

"Well Paul," said he, "you have paid a heavier penalty for concealment than if the truth had been told at first."

"Indeed I have father; I never had anything in my life worry me half so much."

"Always be true and open, Paul, and you need have no fear of me."

Father and son had both learned an important lesson.—S. P. Brigham, in Youth's Companion.