must
be mentally, or morally, or physically maimed, or halt, or blind.

Evan Lamotte was one of the world's unfortunates, and the pitying heart
of the fair heiress had no scorn for such as he. A black sheep, so they
called Evan Lamotte, not yet of age, with a slender physique, a pale,
handsome face, handsome in spite of his dissipations. He seemed
possessed of an evil spirit, that cried incessantly, "drink, drink,
drink." Every means had been tried to win him from his dissipation;
tears, entreaties, threats, bribes, were alike unavailing. In spite of
himself, against himself, Evan Lamotte seemed driven downward by a
relentless, unseen enemy.

"Reckless, worthless, hopeless." These were the adjectives commonly
coupled with his name, and yet his sister had deemed him worth her
loving; his mother had deemed him worth her tears, and Constance Wardour
had deemed him worth her pitying kindness.

"Constance," he choked back the sobs that arose in his throat; "don't
think that I have been drinking; when a fellow like me is grieved almost
to madness, you call him maudlin, but I never cry in my cups, Con. And I
have been perfectly sober since Saturday night, or if you like,
yesterday morning. I drank hard all that day after they told me, Con.,
but not one drop since; not one. Con., tell me what have you heard?"

"About all that is known, I think, Evan. Oh! Evan, do you know, can you
guess why she has done this--this terrible thing? Come down this walk,
Evan; let us sit under that tree, on that bench."

She moved toward the spot indicated, he following mechanically, and
seating himself beside her, in obedience to her gesture.

"Do I know the reason?" he repeated. "Do I guess it? Oh, if I could
guess it; it has haunted me every moment; that strong desire to know
what drove my sister to this fate? It is the question I came here to
ask. Con., help me to think; she must have said something; must have
given you some hint."

"Alas. But she never did."

"And you can not guess; you have no clue to help us unravel this
mystery?"

Constance shook her head.

"Con., oh, Con., _you_ don't think--you can't think that she loved
that--that beast?"

"No, Evan, I can't think that."

"Then," excitedly; "you must think as I do; that there is a mystery;
that there has been foul play. Con., I don't care for anything on earth,
except Sybil; I _must_ know what has driven her to this; I must help
her; I can help her; I can take her from t