which to read
letters, he thought. He would open the envelope and see what Colquhoun
had to say.

He opened it very slowly.

Then he started, and his hand began to tremble. The only letter enclosed
was one in his mother's handwriting. Upon a slip of blue paper were a
few words from the lawyer. "Forwarded to Mr. Brian Luttrell at Mrs.
Luttrell's request on the 25th of October, 1877, by James Colquhoun."

Brian opened the letter. It had no formal opening, but it was carefully
signed and dated, and ran as follows:--

"They tell me that I have done you an injury by doubting your word, and
that I am an unnatural mother in saying--even in my own chamber--what I
thought. I have an excuse, which no one knows but myself and James
Colquhoun. I think it is well under present circumstances to tell you
what it is.

"I am a strong believer in race. I think that the influence of blood is
far more powerful than those of training or education, how strong soever
they may be. Therefore, I was never astonished although I was grieved,
to see that your love for Richard was not so great as that of brothers
should have been----"

"It is false!" said Brian, with a groan, crushing the letter in his
hand, and letting it fall to his side. "No brother could have loved
Richard more than I."

Presently he took up the letter again and read.

"Because I knew," it went on, "though many a woman in my position would
not have guessed the truth, that you were not Richard's brother at all:
that you were not my son."

Again Brian paused, this time in utter bewilderment.

"Is my mother mad" he said to himself. "I--not her son? Who am I, then?"

"I repeat what I have said,"--so ran Mrs. Luttrell's letter--"with all
the emphasis which I can lay upon the words. The matter may not be
capable of proof, but the truth remains. You are not my son, not Edward
Luttrell's son, not Richard Luttrell's brother--no relation of ours at
all; not even of English or Scottish blood. Your parents were Italian
peasant-folk; and my son, Brian Luttrell, lies buried in the churchyard
of an Italian village at the foot of the Western Apennines. You are a
native of San Stefano, and your mother was my nurse."

CHAPTER XI.

ON A MOUNTAIN-SIDE.

"When my child Brian was born we were renting a villa near San Stefano,
and were somewhat far removed from any English doctor. My doctor was,
therefore, an Italian; and what was worse, he was an Italian monk. I
hate forei