“Mr. Brant probably has his own reasons for not coming, and they are doubtless very good ones.” “What makes you say that? Do you know what they are?” Dorothy demanded, being fully determined not to be baffled. It was a point-blank question, but Mrs. Langford evaded it with considerable skill: “I? What a question! Mr. Brant is not likely to take me into his confidence.” For the moment Dorothy had an uncomfortable feeling that she had been making mountains out of molehills, and in that moment she retreated. But when she was alone the perplexities assumed their normal proportions again; nay, they grew even larger when she was reluctantly driven to the conclusion that the late attack on the maternal stronghold had failed because her mother was the better fencer. After all, it was Isabel who gave her the clew to a startling solution of the mysteries, and the manner of its giving was this: The sisters occupied adjoining rooms connected by a curtained archway, and when Dorothy went from her mother’s room to her own she found the curtains dropped--a thing without precedent, and emphasizing very sharply the barrier that Isabel sought to rear between herself and the other members of the family. Dorothy was hurt, but she was too truly a Langford to take the risk of making unwelcome advances. So she went to bed with eyelashes wet, and with a sore spot in her heart in which the ache was quite out of proportion to the wounding incident of the dropped curtains. Just as she was falling asleep the curtains parted and Isabel stole softly into the room, to go down upon her knees at the bedside. Dorothy made no sign at first, but when her sister buried her face in the bedclothes and began to sob, compassion quickly found words--and a little deed. “What is it, Bella, dear?” she asked, with an arm around her sister’s neck. “Everything,” said Isabel to the counterpane. “But what, dear? Can’t you trust me?” Isabel shook her head to the first pleading and nodded to the second. Dorothy understood, and pressed the point gently. “Is it a picture?--won’t the new one find itself?” “It’s--it’s something a great deal worse than unthinkable pictures,” said Isabel dismally. “Then it must be very bad indeed. Tell me about it, Bella, dear.” “I can’t; there isn’t anything to tell. He is gone--I sent him away, and he will never come back!” sobbed Isabel, with womanly inconsistency. Dorothy permitted herself a little sigh of relief. It was only a lovers’ quarrel between her sister and Harry, the last of many, and perhaps a little more serious than some of the others, but still only that. The wound would heal of itself, as such hurtings do, yet she made haste to pour the wine and oil of sympathy into it. “Don’t cry, dear. He will come back--he can’t help coming back,” she prophesied confidently.