he drive, and
the cheery babel of departing voices broke the still morning air.

But two guests left Maxfield that night unexpectedly.

One was the soul of a good lady; the other was the horsewhipped body of
a bad man.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

STRONG HEARTS AND WEAK TEMPERS.

In the sad confusion which followed upon Mrs Ingleton's sudden death,
no one appeared to remark the abrupt departure of Mr Robert Ratman.
Roger certainly never bestowed a thought on the occurrence, and if any
of the other members of the household thought twice about it, they all--
even Jill--kept their ideas on the subject to themselves.

To Roger the week that followed his twentieth birthday was the most
dismal of his life. When a similar blow had fallen months ago he had
been too bewildered and benumbed to realise fully his own loss. Now he
realised everything only too vividly.

His own trouble; the loss of the last near relative he had in the world;
his own sickly health, chaining him down when he would fain seek comfort
in action; the uncertainty of his position as heir of Maxfield; the
hopeless task before him of finding his lost brother; Rosalind's
indifference to his affection--all seemed now to pile up in one great
mountain to oppress him, and he half envied the gentle dead her quiet
resting-place.

It was in the second week after the funeral, when Maxfield once more
began to assume its normal aspect, and Captain Oliphant was allowing
himself to hope that, notwithstanding the removal of his latest "dear
departed," things were likely to shape themselves a trifle more
comfortably for his own designs in her absence--it was in the middle of
November that a letter was handed to Roger as he dressed one morning in
his room.

It bore the London post-mark, and looked mysterious enough to induce
Roger to lay down his brushes and open it there and then. This is what
it said:--

"Dear Roger,--You'll have been expecting to hear from me, as no doubt
your moral friend, Mr Armstrong, has told you who I am. I don't
fancy you are specially pleased with the discovery, and it may suit
you to turn up your nose at your affectionate brother. You may turn
up what you like, but it doesn't alter the fact. I am your brother.
When I heard of my father's death I was in India, and made up my mind
to come home on the chance the old boy had forgiven me and left me
some of the needful in his will. Your guardian, Oliphant, had little
ide