Nathanael wrenched away his hold, thereby throwing Frederick back almost to the floor. The two stood for a moment glaring at one another, in that deadly animosity, most deadly when it arises between brothers,--and then the younger recovered himself. It might be because, instantaneously as the struggle had begun and ended, he had heard a woman's cry of terror, and the name uttered was not “Frederick,” but “Nathanael.” Also, as he stood, he felt two little hands steal from behind and tighten over his own. He grew very calm then. “Frederick, you must unsay that word. There are some things which a man cannot bear even from his brother. No doubt can exist that this is my father's own writing, and no forgery. You know that as well as I do.” “As well as you do! Exactly what I meant to observe,” said Major Harper, with his keenest and politest sneer. Nathanael moved back. A man's roused passions are always terrible; but there is something ten times more awful in fury that is altogether calm--molten down as it were to a white heat. Never but once--that uneffaceable _once_--had Agatha seen her husband look as he looked now. “Pause one minute, Frederick. If you had waited and heard me speak----” “I dare you to speak!” “It would be better not to dare me. I am at my last ebb of patience. I have kept faithfully my promise to you. None of our family know--not even my own wife--all that is known by you and me, and our father whom we buried yesterday. I would have saved him from the knowledge if I could, but it was not to be. Now, take care. If you drive me to it”-- He hesitated. Agatha felt his hand--the thin boyish hand--grow cold as ice and rigid as iron. She uttered a faint cry. “Agatha, my wife,” with the old sweetness in the whisper, “go and sit down. Leave me to reason with my brother.” “No, let _me_ do that,” said one coming between. It was Anne Valery. She had risen from the chair where, during almost all this time, she had sat like a statue, only none watched her, not even Agatha. When she rose, it was with a motion so slow and gliding, her soft black dress scarcely rustling as she moved, that Frederick Harper might well start, thinking a supernatural touch was on his arm. “Anne, is it you? I had forgotten you. No”--he muttered, half to himself, turning from the contest with his brother to gaze on her--“no, I never did--never do forget you.” “I believe that. Come and speak to me here.” Unresisted, she put her arm in his, and led him away to the deep bay-window, circled with a low-cushioned sill, such as delights children. Anne sat down. “Are you determined on this cruel course?” “I must recover my rights,” was the sullen answer. “Any man would.” “And when you have done this--supposing it practicable--what further do you purpose?”