--"'Morrison buried this afternoon. Address me Charleston Hotel, Charleston.' He put those despatches in his pocket and went into the back room. He sat down by the table, and laid his head upon his arms. His shoulders shook, I know he was crying, he was crying for his brother. Oh, I will go down-stairs and tell him the whole; I will go this moment." She rose. On the stairs she met the judge. "Is she worse?" he asked, alarmed at seeing her outside of the room. "No; the same." She found Paul in the lower hall. "Is she worse?" he said. "No. How constantly you think of her!" "Of course." "Can I speak to you for a moment?" She led the way to the small back room where he had sat with his head on his arms. "I want to tell you--" she began. Then she stopped. His face had a worn look, his eyes were dull--a dullness caused by sorrow and the pressure of care. But to her, as he stood there, he was supreme, her whole heart went out to him. "How I love him!" The feeling swept over her like a flood, overwhelming everything else. "What is it you wish to tell me?" Paul asked, seeing that she still remained silent. "How can I do it!--how can I do it!" she said to herself. "Don't tell me, then, if it troubles you," he added, his voice taking the kindly tones she dreaded. Her courage vanished. "Another time," she said hurriedly, and, turning, she left the room. But as she went up the stairs she knew that there would be no other time. "Never! never! I shall never tell him. What do I care for truthfulness, or courage, compared with one word of his spoken in that tone!" XXIII. MISS SABRINA'S first letters had been so full of grief that they had been vague; to her there had been but the one fact: Ferdie was dead. She had become much attached to him. There was nothing strange in this; both as boy and as man, Ferdinand Morrison had been deeply loved by many. The poor woman knew his fault (she thought it his only one), for the judge had written an account of all that had happened, and the reasons for Cicely's flight. Nevertheless she loved this prodigal as the prodigal is often so dearly loved by the woman whose heart is pierced the most deeply by his excesses--his mother. And Miss Sabrina, as regarded her devotion, might indeed have been Ferdie's mother; something in him roused the dormant maternal feeling--the maternal passion--which existed in her heart unknown to herself. She did not comprehend what it was that was disturbing her so much, and yet at the same time making her so happy--she did not comprehend that it was stifled nature asserting itself at this late day; the circumstances of her life had made her a gentle, conciliatory old maid; she was not in the least aware that as a mother she could have been a tigress in the defence of her sons. For she was a woman who would have rejoiced in her sons; daughters would never have been important to her.