r night,
greeted him as a benignant welcome. He bummed a tune cheerfully as he
climbed the stairs, and was smiling genially when he entered the
massive study.

He poured out a liqueur and stood sipping it as he turned over the
letters brought by the night's post. One arrested him. It had been
delivered by hand, and was marked "Most Urgent." He lit a cigar and
tore open the envelope. As he read the letter every vestige of colour
left his face. He sank into a chair: the letter slipped from his
fingers. All his dreams had vanished in a moment. His house of cards
had toppled down. His ambitions were surely and positively destroyed at
one stroke. He mechanically picked up the letter and re-read it. Had it
been his death-sentence it could not have affected him more cruelly.

"Dear Nathaniel: I scarcely know how to write to you about what has
happened. I am afraid I am in some small measure to blame. Ten days ago
your sister showed me a letter from a man named O'Connell--[Kingsnorth
crushed the letter in his hand as he read the hated name--the name of
the man who had caused him so much discomfort during that unfortunate
visit to his estate in Ireland. How he blamed himself now for having
ever gone there. There was indeed a curse on it for the Kingsnorths. He
straightened out the crumpled piece of paper and read on]:--a man named
O'Connell--the man she nursed in your house in Ireland after he had
been shot by the soldiers. He was coming to England and wished to see
her. She asked my permission. I reasoned with her--but she was decided.
If I should not permit her to see him in my house she would meet him
elsewhere. It seemed better the meeting should be under my roof, so I
consented. I bitterly reproach myself now for not acquainting you with
the particulars. You might have succeeded in stopping what has
happened."

"Your sister and O'Connell were married this morning by special licence
and left this afternoon for Liverpool, en route to America."

"I cannot begin to tell you how much I deplore the unfortunate affair.
It will always be a lasting sorrow to me. I cannot write any more now.
My head is aching with the thought of what it will mean to you. Try not
to think too hardly of me and believe me."

"Always your affectionate cousin,"

"Mary Caroline Wrexford."

Kingsnorth's head sank on to his breast. Every bit of life left him.
Everything about his feet. Ashes. The laughing-stock of his friends.

Were Angela there at