"We do not yet know the circumstances," said Mr. Fleming, in a mild tone; "perhaps Mr. Winslow may not have been the aggressor." "Really Sir, I do not see why you should 'perhaps' the matter," answered Sir William Winslow; "I must know my brother best, I imagine. And I was not aware that clergymen advocated duelling." "Nor do they, Sir William," replied Fleming; "on that point, both were equally in fault. But the question was, I think. Who was the aggressor in the quarrel which led to so sad and criminal a result? You will excuse me, however, for believing that brothers do not always know brothers best. Brotherly love is not found in all families; and where it does not exist, the judgment is apt to be prejudiced." "Sir, you are a clergyman," answered Sir William Winslow, with marked emphasis, "and can venture to comment on family disagreements in a way which others could not do." "I was utterly unaware that there were any," answered Horace Fleming; "and sincerely beg your pardon for touching on a subject which, whatever be the circumstances, must be deeply painful to any right-feeling man. My observation was intended to be as wide and open as the day, I assure you." "It was somewhat pointed for the breadth you give it," was the other's reply; and turning away with a quivering lip, he crossed the room, and spoke to the pretty little girl, who was seated not far from the small table, where Mr. Tracy was reading his letters by a lamp. That gentleman had not heard a word of all that passed regarding the duel between his acquaintance, Lord Overton, and Chandos Winslow. There was something in the very first letter he opened which took the colour from his cheek; and the second and the third but blanched his face still more. As the half light of the shaded lamp fell upon his countenance, the deep line which had indented itself during the last few minutes between his eyebrows looked like a dark gash, and every furrow of the brow seemed doubly deep. General Tracy fixed his eyes upon him with some anxiety; but Mr. Tracy communicated the contents of his letters to no one; and as soon as Sir William Winslow crossed the room, he rose and left it, carrying his papers in his hand. When he reached his library, where a light was always burning at that time of night, he sunk into a chair, and suffered the letters to drop upon the floor, murmuring, "Heaven and earth! This is destruction--The North line, too! To be made responsible for debts I had no share in contracting, simply because I let them advertise my name as a director. The Junction down at nothing, and to be abandoned! The Western branch rejected! Why two hundred thousand pounds will not cover it!" and he pressed his hand upon his brow, as if to control the turbulence of thought.