r disquieting question. They knew they could trust
Andrew. But what did surprise him was the calmness into which the
impotent indignation of Frank and Jean subsided. Within three days they
were converted from volcanoes to icebergs. It was a condition too frigid
to give him unalloyed delight, yet all things considered he could not
but think it exceedingly encouraging.

"I presume you don't intend to give either of us a marrying allowance?"
said Frank, interrupting with this practical inquiry the guarded
narrative of his elder brother.

"If I could feel it in any way to be my duty--"

Frank interrupted him again.

"But you don't; what?"

"No, Frank, I may tell you candidly--"

For the third time the soldier cut in--

"And I may tell _you_ candidly that of all contemptible hounds I've ever
had the misfortune to meet, you're the most despicable."

That concluded the conference; and judging from Jean's pointed neglect
of any opportunities for consultation with which Andrew provided her, he
gathered that Frank had sufficiently expressed her opinion also. It was,
no doubt, painful to see oneself thus misjudged, but at the same time he
could not feel too thankful for their abstinence from any further
inquiry regarding their father's fate. At first this lack of curiosity
struck him as almost suspicious, but he was reassured by his conviction
of their depravity. While their father was favoring them, they made a
fuss about him: now that he could favor them no more, their feigned
affection for him disappeared, and all they thought of was reviling the
one member of the family who knew what was best for them. Each time he
recalled those monstrous epithets of Frank's, this conviction deepened,
till he became positively ashamed of them for their indifference. They
might at least have gone through the form of asking for some news of
their father now and then, even if they had not the hearts to sympathize
with his malady. But they had no sense of decency, those two.

Fortunately, he was soon relieved of Frank's society. Some weeks before
his furlough was up he returned to India, and the house was well rid of
him. A meandering and indignant letter from Archibald Berstoun of that
ilk, informing Mr. Andrew Walkingshaw (in the third person) that he
would be obliged if he would kindly keep his brother from trespassing in
his garden, indicated that the despairing lover had paid a farewell, and
surreptitious, visit to his mistress; bu