gently away, and said in a thick, rapid voice,

"Christine, I came to-night to tell you that Donald McFarlane is
unworthy to come into your presence--he has forged your father's
name."

"James, you are mad, or ill, what you say is just impossible!"

"I am neither mad nor ill. I will prove it, if you wish."

At these words every trace of sympathy or feeling vanished from her
face; and she said in a low, hoarse whisper,

"You cannot prove it. I would not believe such a thing possible."

Then with a pitiless particularity he went over all the events
relating to the note, and held it out for her to examine the
signature.

"Is that David Cameron's writing?" he cried; "did you ever see such a
weak imitation? The man is a fool as well as a villain."

Christine gazed blankly at the witness of her cousin's guilt, and
James, carried away with the wicked impetuosity of his passionate
accusations of Donald's life, did not see the fair face set in white
despair and the eyes close wearily, as with a piteous cry she fell
prostrate at his feet.

Ah, how short was his triumph! When he saw the ruin that his words had
made he shrieked aloud in his terror and agony. Help was at hand, and
doctors were quickly brought, but she had received a shock from which
it seemed impossible to revive her. David was brought home, and knelt
in speechless distress by the side of his insensible child, but no
hope lightened the long, terrible night, and when the reaction came in
the morning, it came in the form of fever and delirium.

Questioned closely by David, James admitted nothing but that while
talking to him about Donald McFarlane she had fallen at his feet, and
Donald could only say that he had that evening told her he was going
to Edinburgh in two weeks, to study law with his cousin, and that he
had asked her to be his wife.

This acknowledgement bound David and Donald in a closer communion of
sorrow. James and his sufferings were scarcely noticed. Yet, probably
of all that unhappy company, he suffered the most. He loved Christine
with a far deeper affection than Donald had ever dreamed of. He would
have given his life for hers, and yet he had, perhaps, been her
murderer. How he hated Donald in those days! What love and remorse
tortured him! And what availed it that he had bought the power to ruin
the man he hated? He was afraid to use it. If Christine lived, and he
did use it, she would never forgive him; if she died, he would be her