f his guilt,
and he was sentenced (very mercifully) to six months' hard labor.
That illustrates the strange vicissitudes of life, for, of course,
he is absolutely ruined in the eyes of all right-minded persons.

"Brooke Dalton will probably give you this when you meet, and I
shall no doubt hear from you before long. Meanwhile I need not do
any more than wish you every possible happiness.

"Believe me, your affectionate brother,

"SYDNEY."

Mrs. Hartley was busy in the next room, arranging and numbering a large
collection of pictures which she had bought since she came to Florence,
and thinking how very useful they would be at her Sunday afternoon and
evening receptions, when she went back to London in October. That was
the uppermost thought in her mind when she began her work, but Brooke's
visit had excited her curiosity, and she was longing to know whether it
would succeed in removing her friend's incomprehensible scruples.

Suddenly she was startled by a cry from the other room. It was like a
cry of pain, sharp at the beginning, but stifled immediately. Mrs.
Hartley ran to the door and looked in. Lettice, with an open letter in
her hand, was lying back in her chair, half unconscious, and as white in
the face as the letter itself. A glance showed Mrs. Hartley that this
letter was not from Brooke; but her only concern at the moment was for
her friend.

Poor Lettice had been stunned by Sydney's blundering missive; and yet it
was not altogether Sydney's fault that the statement of facts came upon
her with crushing force. It was Mrs. Hartley herself who was mainly
responsible for the concealment of what had happened to Alan; and she no
doubt, had done her part with the best intentions. But the result was
disastrous so far as her intrigue and wishes were concerned.

With a little care and soothing, Lettice presently recovered from the
shock, at any rate sufficiently to stand up and speak.

"Read this," she said faintly to Mrs. Hartley, steadying herself against
the table. "Is it true? Is Alan Walcott in prison? Did you know it?"

"Yes, my darling, I knew it!"

"And never told me? When was it?"

Lettice looked at her friend reproachfully, yet without a trace of
anger.

"My dearest Lettice, would it have been wise for me to tell you at the
time--the trial was in April--when you were still dangerously weak and
excitable? It was not as if I had known that it would be--what s