“I did not wish to speak before a third person, even when that person was my brother; but what then is this about Margaret? Mrs. Houston’s letters drop strange, incomprehensible hints, and Margaret’s little notes are constrained and sorrowful. Now, sir, what is the meaning of it all?” “Ralph, it was to break the news to you that I came up hither to meet you,” replied the colonel, solemnly. “The news! Great Heaven, sir, what news can there be that needs such serious breaking? You told me that she was well!” exclaimed the captain, changing color, and rising in his anxiety. “Ralph! Margaret Helmstedt is lost to you forever.” The soldier of a dozen battles dropped down into his chair as if felled, and covered his face with his hands. “Ralph! be a man!” A deep groan from the laboring bosom was the only response. “Ralph! man! soldier! no faithless woman is worth such agony!” He neither moved nor spoke; but remained with his face buried in his hands. “Ralph! my son! my brave son! Ralph!” exclaimed the old man, rising in bed. The captain put out his hand and gently pressed him back upon his pillow, saying in a calm, constrained voice: “Lie still; do not disturb yourself; it is over. You said that she was lost to me, forever. She is married to another, then?” “I wish to Heaven that I knew she was; but I only know that she ought to be.” “Tell me all!” The voice was so hollow, so forced, so unnatural, that Colonel Houston could not under other circumstances have recognized it as his son’s. The old man commenced and related the circumstances as they were known to himself. Captain Houston listened--his dreadful calmness as the story progressed, startled first into eager attention, then into a breathless straining for the end, and finally into astonishment and joy! And just as the story came to the point of Margaret’s return from her mysterious trip, with the denial that she was married, he broke forth with: “But you told me that she was lost to me forever! I see nothing to justify such an announcement!” “Good Heaven, Ralph, you must be infatuated, man! But wait a moment.” And taking up the thread of his narrative, he related how all Miss Helmstedt’s friends, convinced of her guilt or folly, had deserted her. At this part of the recital Ralph Houston’s fine countenance darkened with sorrow, indignation and scorn. “Poor dove!--but we can spare them. Go on, sir! go on!” “Ralph, you make me anxious; but listen further.” And the old man related how Margaret, presenting herself at the communion table, had, in the face of the whole congregation, been turned away. Ralph Houston leaped upon his feet with a rebounding spring that shook the house, and stood, convulsed, livid, speechless, breathless with rage. “Ralph! My God, you alarm me! Pray, pray govern yourself.” His breast labored, his face worked, his words came as if each syllable was uttered with agony: “Who--did--this?” “Mr. Wellworth, once her friend!”