She was vehement, instantly vehement, in her disclaimer.

"I can answer at once," said she, "because I have thought of nothing
else for all these weeks. Here all was well. Mr. Brotherson was hopeful
and happy and believed in her happiness and willingness to wait for his
success. And this success was coming so fast! Oh, how can we ever tell
him! How can we ever answer his questions even, or keep him satisfied
and calm until he is strong enough to hear the truth. I've had to
acknowledge already that I have had no letter from her for weeks. She
never wrote to him directly, you know, and she never sent him messages,
but he knew that a letter to me, was also a letter to him and I can see
that he is troubled by this long silence, though he says I was right not
to let her know of his illness and that I must continue to keep her
in ignorance of it till he is quite well again and can write to her
himself. It is hard to hear him talk like this and not look sad or
frightened."

Sweetwater remembered Miss Challoner's last letter, and wished he had it
here to give her. In default of this, he said:

"Perhaps this not hearing may act in the way of a preparation for the
shock which must come to him sooner or later. Let us hope so, Miss
Scott."

Her eyes filled.

"Nothing can prepare him," said she. Then added, with a yearning accent,
"I wish I were older or had more experience. I should not feel so
helpless. But the gratitude I owe him will give me strength when I need
it most. Only I wish the suffering might be mine rather than his."

Unconscious of any self-betrayal, she lifted her eyes, startling
Sweetwater by the beauty of her look. "I don't think I'm so sorry for
Oswald Brotherson," he murmured to himself as he left her. "He's a more
fortunate man than he knows, however deeply he may feel the loss of his
first sweetheart."

That evening the disappointed Sweetwater took the train for New York. He
had failed to advance the case in hand one whit, yet the countenance he
showed Mr. Gryce at their first interview was not a wholly gloomy one.

"Fifty dollars to the bad!" was his first laconic greeting. "All I have
learned is comprised in these two statements. The second O. B. is a fine
fellow; and not intentionally the cause of our tragedy. He does not even
know about it. He's down with the fever at present and they haven't told
him. When he's better we may hear something; but I doubt even that."

"Tell me about it."

Swe