think that you are no
longer mistress of this house? You are as much mistress as you were in
my father's time--in Richard's time. Why should there be a difference
now?"

"There is this difference," said Mrs. Luttrell, coldly, "that I do not
care to live in any house with you. It would be painful to me; that is
all. If you desire to stay, I will go."

Brian staggered back as if she had struck him in the face.

"Do you mean to cast me off?" he almost whispered, for he could not find
strength to speak aloud. "Am I not your son, too?"

"You fill the place that a son should occupy," said Mrs. Luttrell,
letting her hand rise and fall upon her lap, and looking away from
Brian. "I can say no more. My son--my own son--the son that I
loved"--(she paused, and seemed to recollect herself before she
continued in a lower voice)--"the son that I loved--is dead."

There was a silence. Brian seated himself and bowed his head upon his
hands. "God help me!" she heard him mutter. But she did not relent.

Presently he looked up and fixed his haggard eyes upon her.

"Mother," he said, in hoarse and unnatural tones, "you have had your
say; now let me have mine. I know too well what you believe. You think,
because of a slight dispute which arose between us on that day, that I
had some grudge against my brother. I solemnly declare to you that that
is not true. Richard and I had differed; but we met--in the wood"--(he
drew his breath painfully)--"a few minutes only before that terrible
mistake of mine; and we were friends again. Mother, do you know me so
ill as to think that I could ever have lifted my hand against Richard,
who was always a friend to me, always far kinder than I deserved? It was
a mistake--a mistake that I'll never, never forgive myself for, and that
you, perhaps, never will forgive--but, at any rate, do me the justice to
believe that it was a mistake, and not--not--that I was Richard's
murderer!"

Mrs. Luttrell sat silent, motionless, her white hands crossed before her
on the crape of her black gown. Brian threw himself impetuously on his
knees before her and looked up into her face.

"Mother, mother!" he said, "do you not believe me?"

It seemed to him a long time--it was, in reality, not more than ten or
twelve seconds--before Mrs. Luttrell answered his question. "Do you not
believe me?" he had said. And she answered--

"No."

The shock of finding his passionate appeal so utterly disregarded
restored to Brian t