A laugh; a laugh which paled Doris' cheek; them his tones grew even again, memory came back and he muttered faintly:

"That is true. I said nothing to him. He had the right to court her - and he did, you say; wrote: to her; imposed himself upon her, drove her mad with importunities she was forced to rebuke; and - and what else? There is something else. Tell me ; I will know it all."

He was standing now, his feebleness all gone, passion in every lineament and his eye alive and feverish, with emotion. "Tell me," he repeated, with unrestrained vehemence. " Tell me all. Kill me with sorrow but save me from being unjust."

"He wrote her a letter; it frightened her. He followed it up by a visit -"

Doris paused; the sentence hung suspended. She had heard a step - a hand on the door.

Oswald had heard nothing, seen nothing. But he took note of Doris' silence, and turning towards her in frenzy saw what had happened, and so was in a measure prepared for the stern, short sentence which now rang through the room:

"Wait, Miss Scott! you tell the story badly. Let him listen to me. >From my mouth only shall he hear the stern and seemingly unnatural part I played in this family tragedy."

The face of Oswald hardened. Those pliant features - beloved for their gracious kindliness - set themselves in lines which altered them almost beyond recognition; but his voice was not without some of its natural sweetness, as, after a long and hollow look at the other's composed countenance, he abruptly exclaimed: