rlour door. He found
his mother toying with Miss Silver's hand; Edwin standing by, proud and
glad, with his arm clasped round Louise.

He did not remove it. In his brother's very face--perhaps because of
the expression of that face--the lover held fast his own.

Mrs. Halifax rose up, alarmed. "She is just going, Guy. Shake hands,
and bid her good-bye."

The girl's hand, which was sorrowfully and kindly extended, Guy
snatched and held fast.

"Let her pass," cried Edwin, angrily.

"Most certainly. I have not the least wish to detain her. Good-bye! A
pleasant journey!" And, still keeping her hand, he gazed with burning
eyes on the features he had so loved--as boys do love--with a wild
imaginative passion, kindled by beauty alone. "I shall claim my
right--just for once--may I, sister Louise?"

With a glance of defiance at Edwin, Guy caught his brother's betrothed
round the waist and kissed her--once--twice--savagely.

It was done so suddenly and under such an ingenious disguise of
"right," that open vengeance was impossible. But as Edwin hurried
Louise away, the look that passed between the two young men was enough
to blot out henceforward all friendship, all brotherhood. That insult
would never be forgotten.

She was gone--the house was free of her and Edwin too. Guy was left
alone with me and his mother.

Mrs. Halifax sat sewing. She seemed to take no note of his comings and
goings--his restless starts--his fits of dark musing, when his face
grew like the face of some stranger, some one whom he would have shrunk
from--any one but our own merry Guy.

"Mother,"--the voice startled me, such irritable, intolerable
bitterness marred its once pleasant tones--"when do they come back?"

"Do you mean--"

"I mean those people."

"In a week or so. Your brother returns to-night, of course."

"My BROTHER, eh? Better not say it--it's an ugly word."

Mrs. Halifax attempted no reproof; she knew that it would have been
useless--worse than useless--then.

"Mother," Guy said at last, coming up and leaning against her chair,
"you must let me go."

"Where, my son?"

"Anywhere--out of their sight--those two. You see, I cannot bear it.
It maddens me--makes me wicked--makes me not myself. Or rather makes
me truly MYSELF, which is altogether wicked."

"No, Guy--no, my own boy. Have patience--all this will pass away."

"It might, if I had anything to do. Mother," kneeling down by her with
a piteous gaze-