Fred Bingham read Captain Bradshaw's letter through. “Extraordinary,” he said; “but I am really hardly surprised. He has spoken to me in a rambling, excited way about you, and I really am afraid that he is going a little out of his mind.” Frank looked at the table gloomily. “I have written to him to demand an explanation, and he has returned the letter unopened.” His cousin looked grieved rather than surprised. “It is abominable,” Frank went on, warmly; “the only possible reason I can see is that I refused to marry Alice Heathcote, when he had set his mind upon it.” Fred Bingham had long suspected that such had been Captain Bradshaw's wish, and he now took advantage of the knowledge. “Yes,” he said, “absurd as it is, Frank, from a few words he let drop when he was in one of his passions the other day, I supposed it was that. He said something about all his plans thwarted—infamous scoundrel—break Alice's heart—have nothing to do with him.” “Yes,” Frank said, “I can quite fancy him. But he must be mad, Fred. It was all his own hatching up. Alice and I never cared a scrap for each other. Sisterly, and so on, but nothing else.” Fred Bingham was silent. “Don't you believe me, Fred?” Frank asked, warmly. “Well, Frank, I don't question what you say about your own feelings, and I am sure that you are the last fellow to intend to trifle with any girl's affections; but, if you frankly wish my opinion, I tell you honestly I have no question that Alice Heathcote did love you.” “Nonsense, man!” Frank said, very angrily, “Alice never cared a scrap for me; she told me so herself.” “Did you ask her then, Frank?” Fred said, pointedly. “No, I did not,” Frank said, still more indignant; “have I not told you I never thought of such a thing. Uncle and I were having a row. He was insisting on my marrying her, I was saying I would not, because I did not love her—well, she was in the next room and heard it all, and came in and told her uncle that it was out of the question, for that I did not love her and she did not love me.” Fred looked up almost contemptuously. How stupid this big strong man was to be sure. “And what do you suppose she could have said, Frank? She had just heard you say you did not love her, and would not marry her; and do you think that a girl like Alice Heathcote could have done anything else under the circumstances? Do you think she could have burst out crying and told you she loved you and prayed you to marry her?” Frank sat down in his chair in sheer dismay. “How long was this ago, Frank? Six months?” Frank nodded. “Just as I thought—just the time Alice got ill and low-spirited. I saw it all along. I was certain that she loved you, and I thought you loved her. I always looked upon it as a settled thing; and, indeed, it is hardly likely your uncle would have gone so far as he did, if he had not been sure Alice's happiness was concerned.” Frank sat petrified; at last he said,—