to you?"

"Yes."

"What was in that letter?"

"Nothing of threat, they say. Only just cheer and expressions of hope.
Just like the others, Mr. Brotherson."

"And they accuse her of taking her own life? Their verdict is a lie.
They did not know her."

Then, after some moments of wild and confused feeling, he declared, with
a desperate effort at self-control: "You said that some believe this.
Then there must be others who do not. What do they say?"

"Nothing. They simply feel as you do. They see no reason for the act and
no evidence of her having meditated it. Her father and her friend insist
besides, that she was incapable of such a horror. The mystery of it is
killing us all; me above others, for I've had to show you a cheerful
face, with my brain reeling and my heart like lead in my bosom."

She held out her hands. She tried to draw his attention to herself; not
from any sentiment of egotism, but to break, if she could, the strain of
these insupportable horrors where so short a time before Hope sang and
Life revelled in re-awakened joys.

Perhaps some faint realisation of this reached him, for presently he
caught her by the hands and bowed his head upon her shoulder and finally
let her seat him again, before he said:

"Do they know of--of my interest in this?"

"Yes; they know about the two O. B.s."

"The two--" He was on his feet again, but only for a moment; his
weakness was greater than his will power.

"Orlando and Oswald Brotherson," she explained, in answer to his broken
appeal. "Your brother wrote letters to her as well as you, and signed
them just as you did, with his initials only. These letters were found
in her desk, and he was supposed, for a time, to have been the author of
all that were so signed. But they found out the difference after awhile.
Yours were easily recognised after they learned there was another O. B.
who loved her."

The words were plain enough, but the stricken listener did not take them
in. They carried no meaning to him. How should they? The very idea she
sought to impress upon him by this seemingly careless allusion was an
incredible one. She found it her dreadful task to tell him the hard,
bare truth.

"Your brother," said she, "was devoted to Miss Challoner, too. He
even wanted to marry her. I cannot keep back this fact. It is known
everywhere, and by everybody but you."

"Orlando?" His lips took an ironical curve, as he uttered the word. This
was a young girl's im