The rain is dripping from the trees without and
pattering on the stone flags. McKay leans out into the night, and the
sister's loving heart yearns over him in his trouble.

"Willy," she says, laying the little white-gloved hand on his arm, "it's
hard to bear, but she isn't worthy _any_ man's love. Twice I've heard in
the last two days that she makes a boast of it that 'twas to see her
that some one risked his commission and so--kept Mr. Stanley from being
here to-night. Willy, _do_ you know who it was? _Don't_ you think he
ought to have come forward like a gentleman, days ago, and told the
truth? _Will!_ What is it? _Don't_ look so! Speak to me, Willy,--your
little Nan. Was there ever a time, dear, when my whole heart wasn't open
to you in love and sympathy?"

And now, just at this minute, the music begins again. Soft, sweet, yet
with such a strain of pathos and of sadness running through every chord;
it is the loveliest of all the waltzes played in his "First Class
Camp,"--the one of all others he most loved to hear. Her heart almost
bursts now to think of him in his lonely room, beyond hearing of the
melody that is so dear to him, that is now so passionately dear to
her,--"Love's Sigh." Doubtless, Philip had asked the leader days ago to
play it here and at no other time. It is more than enough to start the
tears long welling in her eyes. For an instant it turns her from thought
of Willy's own heartache.

"Will!" she whispers, desperately. "This was to have been Philip
Stanley's waltz--and I want you to take--something to him for me."

He turns back to her again, his hands clinched, his teeth set, still
thinking only of his own bitter humiliation,--of how that girl has
fooled and jilted him,--of how for her sake he had brought all this
trouble on his stanchest friend.

"Phil Stanley!" he exclaims. "By heaven! it makes me nearly mad to think
of it!--and all for her sake,--all through me. Oh, Nan! Nan! I _must_
tell you! It was for me,--to save me that----"

"_Willy!_" and there is almost horror in her wide blue eyes.
"_Willy!_" she gasps--"oh, _don't_--don't tell me _that_!
Oh, it isn't _true_? Not you--not you, Willy. Not my brother! Oh,
quick! Tell me."

Startled, alarmed, he seizes her hand.

"Little sister! What--what has happened--what is----"

But there is no time for more words. The week of misery; the piteous
strain of the long evening; the sweet, sad, wailing melody,--his
favorite waltz; the sudden,