aginative fancy to him. "Why Orlando never knew
her, never saw her, never--"

"He met her at Lenox."

The name produced its effect. He stared, made an effort to think,
repeated Lenox over to himself; then suddenly lost his hold upon the
idea which that word suggested, struggled again for it, seized it in an
instant of madness and shouted out:

"Yes, yes, I remember. I sent him there--" and paused, his mind blank
again.

Poor Doris, frightened to her very soul, looked blindly about for help;
but she did not quit his side; she did not dare to, for his lips had
reopened; the continuity of his thoughts had returned; he was going to
speak.

"I sent him there." The words came in a sort of shout. "I was so hungry
to hear of her and I thought he might mention her in his letter. Insane!
Insane! He saw her and--What's that you said about his loving her? He
couldn't have loved her; he's not of the loving sort. They've deceived
you with strange tales. They've deceived the whole world with fancies
and mad dreams. He may have admired her, but loved her,--no! or if he
had, he would have respected my claims."

"He did not know them."

A laugh; a laugh which paled Doris' cheek; then 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.

Orlando had entered the room.

XXXIII. ALONE

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 f