her sister by the arm and left the room.

"Well, my dear aunt, the fact is, I believe my unhappy brother has
never recovered from--from his passion for Cecile de Savenaye, that
early love affair, so suddenly and tragically terminated--well, it
seems to have turned his brain!"

"Pooh, pooh! why that was twenty years ago. Don't tell me it is in a
man to be so constant."

"In no _sane_ man perhaps; but then, you know, Tanty, that is just the
point.... Remember the circumstances. He loved her madly; he followed
her, lived near her for months and she was drowned before his eyes, I
believe. I never heard, of course, any details of that strange period
of his life, but we can imagine." This was a difficult, vague, subject
to deal with, and Mr. Landale wisely passed on. "Moreover, his
behaviour when in this house on his return at first has left me no
doubt. I watched him closely. He was for ever haunting those rooms
which she had inhabited. When he found her miniature in the
drawing-room he went first as white as death, then he took it in his
hand and stood gazing at it (I am not exaggerating) for a whole hour
without moving; and, finally, he carried it off, and I know he used to
talk to it in his room. And now, even if I had not given my poor
brother my word of honour never to disturb his chosen solitude, I
should have felt it a heavy responsibility to promote a meeting which
would inevitably bring back past memories in a troublous manner upon
him. In fact, were he to come across the children of his dead
love--above all Molly, who must be startlingly like her mother--what
might the result be? I hardly like to contemplate it. The human brain
is a very delicately balanced organ, my dear aunt, and once it gets
ever so slightly out of order one cannot be too careful to avoid
risk."

He finished his say with an expressive gesture of the hand. Miss
O'Donoghue remained for a moment plunged in reflection, during which
the cloud upon her countenance gradually lifted.

"It is a strange thing," she said at last, "but constancy seems to run
in the family. There is no denying that. Here is Sophia, a ridiculous
spectacle--and you yourself, my dear Rupert.... And now poor Adrian,
too, and his case of mere calf-love, as one would have thought."

"A calf may grow into a fine bull, you know," returned Mr. Landale,
who had winced at his aunt's allusion to himself and now spoke in the
most unemotional tone he could assume, "especially if