"Your words, sir, are an insult to me, an insult to my child. I tell you I can hear no more. What you say is false. My daughter could not leave my house like this. Go, sir, before I say words which I may afterwards repent, and--and--" "George, man, what is it?" cried Uncle Luke, as his brother's words trailed off, and he stopped suddenly in the agitated walk he had kept up to and fro while he was addressing Leslie. There was no answer to the agitated question, for George Vine was gazing down at something beside the table, lying half covered by the dragged-aside cloth. Whatever it was it seemed to act as a spell upon the old naturalist, whose eyes were fixed, and his whole aspect that of one suddenly fixed by some cataleptic attack. "What is it? Are you ill?" cried Uncle Luke excitedly, as he stepped forward. "Hah, a letter!" He was in the act of stooping to pick it up, but his act seemed to rouse his brother from his lethargy, and he caught him by the arm. "No, no," he whispered; and slowly putting his brother back, he stooped and stretched out his hand to pick up the half-hidden letter. They could see that his hand trembled violently, and the others stood watching every act, for the feeling was strong upon both that the letter which Vine raised and held at arm's length contained the explanation needed. George Vine held the letter toward the shaded lamp, and then passed his left hand over his eyes, and uttered a hoarse sigh, which seemed as if torn from his heart. "I--I can't read," he whispered--"eyes dim to-night, Luke. Read." Uncle Luke's hand trembled now as he took the missive, and slowly tore open the envelope; but as he drew out the letter it was snatched from his hands by his brother, who held it beneath the lamp-shade and bent down to read. He raised himself up quickly and passed his hand across his eyes, as if to sweep away some film which hindered his reading, and the silence in that room was terrible as he bent down again. A strong pang of suffering shot through Duncan Leslie as he saw the old man's lips quivering, while he read in a slow, laborious way, the few lines contained in the note, and then, after once more making an effort to clear his vision, he seemed to read it again. "George--brother--why don't you speak?" said Uncle Luke at last. George Vine looked up in a curiously dazed way. "Speak?" he said huskily; "speak?" "Yes; is that from Louise?" He bowed his head in assent. "Well, what does she say, man? What does it mean?" George Vine looked in his brother's eyes once more--the same curiously dazed look as if he hardly comprehended what was taking place. Then he slowly placed the note in Luke's hands. There was no slow, dazed manner here, for the old cynic was full of excitement, and he seemed to read the note at a glance. "Gone!" he said. "Then she has gone?" "Yes," said his brother slowly; "she has gone." "But this man, George--this man, Leslie. Don't stare, man, speak."