the circumstances.
Her health has suffered--as mine also has suffered--under the painful
dispensation which has been meted out to us. We do not repine. Hearts
that are broken, that have no hopes, no joys, no pleasures in store for
them in this life, are not eager to exhibit their sufferings. If I speak
as I speak now, it is for the last and only time. It is right that you
should hear me once."

"I will hear anything you choose to say," answered Brian, heavily. "But,
mother, be merciful. I have suffered, too."

"We will pass over the amount of your suffering," said Mrs. Luttrell,
"if you please. I have no doubt that it is very great, but I think that
it will soon be assuaged. I think that you will soon begin to remember
the many things that you gain by your brother's death--the social
position, the assured income, the estate in Scotland which I brought to
your father, as well as his own house of Netherglen--all the things for
which men are only too ready to sell their souls."

"All these things are nothing to me," sighed Brian.

"They are a great deal in the world's eyes. You will soon find out how
differently it receives you now from the way it received you a year--a
month--a week--ago. You are a rich man. I wish you joy of your wealth.
Everything goes to you except Netherglen itself; that is left in my
hands."

"Mother, are you mad?" said her son, passionately. "Why do you talk to
me in this way? I swear to you that I would give every hope and every
joy that I ever possessed--I would give my life--to have Richard back
again! Do you think I ever wanted to be rich through his death?"

"I do not know what you wanted," said Mrs. Luttrell, sternly. "I have no
means of guessing."

"Is this what you wished me to say?" said Brian, whose voice was hoarse
and changed. "I said that I would listen--but, you might spare me these
taunts, at least."

"I do not taunt you. I wish only to draw attention to the difference
between your position and my own. Richard's death brings wealth, ease,
comfort to you; to me nothing but desolation. I am willing to allow the
house of which I have been the mistress for so many years, of which I am
legally the mistress still, to pass into your hands. I have lost my home
as well as my sons. I am desolate."

"Your sons! You have not lost both your sons, mother," pleaded Brian,
with a note of bitter pain in his voice, as he came closer to her and
tried in vain to take her icy hand. "Why do you