his son of hers.

"I will leave my address with Mr. Colquhoun, Angela," said Brian,
forcing a slight, sad smile. "If there is business for me to transact,
he will be able to let me know. I shall hear from him how you all are,
from time to time."

"Will you not write to me, then?" said Angela.

Brian darted an inquiring glance at her. Oh, what divine pity, what
sublime forgetfulness of self, gleamed out of those tender,
tear-reddened eyes!

"Will you let me?" he said, almost timidly.

"I should like you to write. I shall look for your letters, Brian. Don't
forget that I shall be anxious for news of you."

Almost without knowing what he did, he sank down on his knees before
her, and touched her hand reverently with his lips. She bent forward and
kissed his forehead as a sister might have done.

"God bless you, Angela!" he said. He could not utter another word.

"Mother," said the girl, taking in hers the passive hand of the woman,
who had sat with face averted--perhaps so that she should not meet the
eyes of the man whom she could not forgive--"mother, speak to him; say
good-bye to him before he goes."

The mother's hand trembled and tried to withdraw itself, but Angela
would not let it go.

"One kind word to him, mother," she said. "See, he is kneeling before
you. Only look at him and you will see how he has suffered! Don't let
him go away from you without one word."

She guided Mrs. Luttrell's hand to Brian's head; and there for a moment
it rested heavily. Then she spoke.

"If I have been unjust, may God forgive me!" she said.

Then she withdrew her hand and rose from her seat. She did not even look
behind her as she walked to the bed-room door, pushed it open, entered,
and closed it, and turned the key in the old-fashioned lock. She had
said all that she meant to say: no power, human or divine, should wrest
another word from her just then. But in her heart she was crying over
and over again the words that had been upon her lips a hundred times to
say.

"He is no son of mine--no son of mine--this man by whose hand Richard
Luttrell fell. I am childless. Both my sons are dead."

CHAPTER VII.

A FAREWELL.

There was a little, sunny, green walk opposite the dining-room windows,
edged on either side by masses of white and crimson phlox and a row of
sunflowers, where the gentlemen of the house were in the habit of taking
their morning stroll and smoking their first cigar. It was here that
Hugo w