t winter my eldest brother
went, to the serious injury of his business: he is a lawyer. I went
when they were in Europe, my wound not yet healed. By George! Harry
looked in better health than I: every one thought I was the invalid.
The doctor was called in immediately, who said I had endangered my life
by the expedition. I found out my lady had been to balls and on
excursions all the time she was writing those harrowing letters."

"Is it possible," said Miss Featherstone, "that you think Mrs. Pinckney
is false--that she deliberately tells untruths?"

"Not a bit of it," interrupted Colonel Pinckney. "She loves to complain
and make herself an object of sympathy. Poor Harry, of course, had a
constant cough, and whenever he took cold all his distressing symptoms
were aggravated: then she'd write her letters. By the time they were
received he would be pretty well again. You can see for yourself what
she is: she sends for Doctor Harris, has Adele sleep on a mattress on
the floor in her room, leaving little Harry to keep you awake all
night--a fine preparation for the drudgery of the next day--then toward
evening she rises, makes a beautiful toilette, and drives with me
several miles to a dinner-party. Not a month ago, you remember, this
occurred when we went to Judge Lawrence's. To go back to my poor
brother: let me tell you what happened from her crying wolf so often.
The next winter they went to St. Augustine: we live in Virginia, you
know. A few weeks after their arrival the alarming letters began and
continued to appear. I took it upon myself to suppress most of them,
for really I had grown scarcely to believe a word she said with regard
to her husband, and, as I am sanguine, thought poor Harry would
overcome the disease, as our father had before him, and live to a good
old age. One morning, however, a telegram came: he was dead!" Colonel
Pinckney could scarcely speak. Recovering himself a little, he
continued in husky tones: "He died alone with his nurse: Virginia,
taking care of herself as usual, was in another room asleep."

"I wonder what they are talking about?" thought Mrs. Pinckney, twisting
her pretty neck in all directions so she could see them from her bed.
Their two heads were close together: he was speaking earnestly, and
Miss Featherstone's eyes were on the ground.

Mrs. Pinckney dressed and went down to dinner, although she had not
quite recovered the use of her voice. "Dick," she whispered, "it was a
fi