"You must, you shall," he cried, "unless you want me to really die." "But my father, dear?" "Quick! write!" he said with the feverish energy which frightened her; and dragging open the blotter on a side table, he pointed to a chair. "He is mad--he is mad," she wailed to herself, as, in obedience to a will far stronger at that moment than her own, she sat down and took up pen and paper. "Write," he said hoarsely. "Write, Harry?" "Yes, quick!" In a horror of dread as she read her brother's wild looks, and took in his feverish semi-delirium, lest he should carry out a threat which chilled her, she dipped her pen and waited as, after an evident struggle with a clouding intellect, Harry said quickly-- "Dear father, I am forced by circumstances to leave home. Do not grieve for me, I am well and happy; and no matter what you hear, do not attempt to follow me. If you do you will bring sorrow upon yourself, and ruin upon one I love. Good-bye; some day all will be cleared up. Till then, your loving daughter, Louise." "Harry!" she sobbed, as she laid down the pen, and gazed at the tear-blurred paper. "You cannot mean this. I dare not--I could not go." "Very well," he said coldly. "I told you it was too late. It does not matter now." "Oh," she panted, "you are not reasonable. I have given you money. Go as you said and hide somewhere. You are weak and ill now." "Yes," he said, in a voice which wrung her heart. "I am weak and ill now." "A little rest, dear, and the knowledge that you have the means of escaping will make you more calm." He looked at her with his eyes so full of wild anger that she half shrank from him, but his face changed. "Poor little sis!" he said tenderly; "I frighten you. Look at me. Am I fit to go away alone? I know--I feel that at any moment I may break down and go off my head amongst strangers." She looked at him wildly, and as she stood trembling there in a state of agitation which overset her generally calm balance, she read in his eyes that he was speaking the truth. "Put that note in an envelope and direct it," he said in a slow, measured way, and mechanically, and as if for the time being his will was again stronger than hers, she obeyed him, dropped the letter on the table, and then stood gazing from it to her brother and back again. "It's hard upon you," he said, with his hand to his head, as if he could think more clearly then, "hard upon the poor old dad. But it seems my only chance, Lou, my girl." Father--brother--what should she do? "I can feel it now," he said drearily. "There, I'm cool now. It's lying in that cold, wet cave, and the horrors I've gone through. I've got something coming on--had touches of it before--in the nights," he went on slowly and heavily; "p'r'aps it 'll kill me--better if it does." "No, no, Harry. Stay and let me nurse you here. We could keep it a secret from every one, and--"