“Yes, it is a great shock. You say that it is more than a year since my uncle died.” “It has been—about fourteen months.” “What was the cause of his death?” “An attack of pneumonia, that carried him off after about ten days’ illness.” “Were any of his family with him?” “He had no family of his own, as you probably know. He had one brother in Germany, but of course there was no time to summon him. His orphan niece, a young lady from Washington, was with him when he died.” “But he had a brother in Washington—a Lutheran minister,” said Justin, feeling his heart stand still. “Ah, yes—the father of that niece who was with him in his last moments. But he went before. He fell in the first battle of Bull’s Run.” “Oh-h-h!” groaned Justin, dropping his head upon the table with such a moan of unspeakable agony that the good merchant sprang to his feet and leaned over him, exclaiming: “Lord forgive me! And you—you are his son, and I have blurted this dreadful news so suddenly. I was thinking that you were the son of the brother in Germany.” Justin did not answer. His shoulders rose and fell with the great sobs that shook his frame. The merchant went and closed the door of the room, and drew the bolt, so that no other eyes should look upon the anguish of his fellow-man. “My sister; where is she?” at length asked Justin. “She returned to Washington, enriched by the will of her uncle, who constituted her the sole heiress of his immense wealth.” “Enriched in fortune, but, oh, how impoverished in home!” groaned Justin. Then rising, he held out his hand to the merchant, saying, “I thank you, sir, for the information you have given, as well as for your delicate kindness to a heavily-stricken man; and I will bid you good-day.” “Have you a carriage at the door?” inquired the practical merchant. “No.” “Then I must order one for you. You are not in a condition to walk through the streets, Mr. Rosenthal.” Justin bowed his thanks and resumed his seat. And when the carriage was announced, he took leave of the friendly merchant and drove to his hotel. He went at once to his own room, and gave way to the sorrow that was almost bursting his bosom. Some hours later, when he had attained some degree of calmness, he entered the sitting-room, occupied in common by himself and Britomarte. Miss Conyers was deeply engaged reading an “extra,” with further details of the great battle of Gettysburg. On hearing the door open, she looked up, and was at once shocked by seeing Justin enter, looking pale as death, and wearing the traces of deep grief upon his brow. She threw down the paper and started up to meet him, exclaiming, breathlessly: “Justin, what is the matter? What have you heard? Erminie?” He crossed the room and threw himself upon the sofa. “Erminie!” again gasped Miss Conyers, in breathless anxiety. “Britomarte, Erminie is alive and well, but—fatherless!” he groaned, covering his face with his hands.