quite sure that if I had been at the height of
felicity and good fortune, it would have needed but a false step, or a
slight chill, or a stray shot--a stray shot! oh, my God! If only some
stray shot had come to me--not to my brother--my brother----"

They were the first tears that he had shed since the beginning of his
illness. The sudden memory of his brother's fate proved too much for him
in his present state of bodily weakness. He bowed his head on his hands
and wept.

A curiously soft expression stole into the Prior's face. He looked at
Brian once or twice and seemed as if he wished to say some pitying word,
but, in point of fact, no word of consolation occurred to him. He was
very sorry for Brian, whose story was perfectly familiar to him; but he
knew very well that Brian's grief was not one to which words could bring
comfort. He waited silently, therefore, until the mood had passed, and
the young man lifted up his heavy eyes and quivering lips with a faint
attempt at a smile, which was sadder than those passionate sobs had
been.

"I must ask pardon," he said, somewhat confusedly. "I did not know that
I was so weak. I will go to my room."

"Let me delay you for one moment," said the Prior, confronting him with
kindly authority. "It has needed little penetration, signor, to discover
that you have lately passed through some great sorrow; I am now more
sure of it than ever. I would not intrude upon your confidence, but I
ask you to remember that I wish to be your friend--that there are
reasons why I should take a special interest in you and your family, and
that, humble as I am, I may be of use to you and yours."

Brian stopped short and looked at him. "Me and mine!" he repeated to
himself. "Me and mine! What do you know of us?"

"I will be frank with you," said the priest. "Thirteen years ago a
document of a rather remarkable nature was placed in my hands affecting
the Luttrell family. In this paper the writer declared that she, as the
nurse of Mrs. Luttrell's children, had substituted her own child for a
boy called Brian Luttrell, and had carried off the true Brian to her
mother, a woman named Assunta Naldi. The nurse, Vincenza, died and left
this paper in the hands of her mother, who, after much hesitation,
confided the secret to me."

Brian took a step nearer to the Prior. "What right have you had to keep
this matter secret so long?" he demanded.

"Say, rather, what right had I to disturb an honourable f