The young man’s face lighted up. He flung down the pen with which he had just written “George De Marke,” and taking up his portmanteau, followed the waiter, who stood ready to guide him through the intricacies of the establishment. “Never mind. This is the room, you need not announce me,” exclaimed De Marke, as the waiter paused before a chamber-door. The waiter disappeared; the door was opened hurriedly, and the quick exclamations, “Louis,” “George,” “brother,” were followed by a warm embrace and an eager clasping of hands. Never perhaps has it happened, that two men, not twins, bore so close a resemblance to each other, as the persons who stood in that chamber, with their hands interlocked and their eyes sparkling with affectionate welcome. There was scarcely the fraction of an inch by which you could distinguish them in height or size. The same open, frank expression of face was there; the form and color of the eyes were alike; indeed, save for the more neatly trimmed beard and perfect toilet of the one, you could not have known the brothers apart. Even in manner they were the same, for the careless but not ungraceful air which one brother had brought from his wild life in the gold regions, met its counterpart at once. The very smile and laugh of one had the sunshine and heart-warm richness of the other. The new-comer was perhaps some four years older than the other, but this was only detected by close examination. “And so you have come at last. O brother, brother! how I have wanted you!” said Louis, drawing his guest to a sofa, and shaking hands with him over and over again. “You have no idea how very, very much I have wanted you!” A shade of trouble came over his face as he spoke, and instantly that of his brother darkened with the same shadow, as if the pain which one felt must have a mutual vibration. “And I,” said George, with a sudden overshadowing of all cheerfulness, “I have a great many things to say to you. Since we parted, Louis, I have suffered as you will hardly think me capable of suffering.” “And I,” answered Louis, sorrowfully,—“and I.” George sat down by his brother, and threw one arm over his shoulder with a slight caress. “What is it, my brother? I was in hopes that, save our one great cause of annoyance, you had escaped any serious trouble.” Louis shook his head and a mist crept over his eyes. “It is a hard thing, George, for a fellow no older than I am, and disposed to be happy, as you and I both are. It is hard, I say, to carry about a secret, that one feels forever heavy upon the heart, but dares not talk about.” “What is this secret, my brother?” Louis turned suddenly and seized his brother’s hand; tears sprung to his fine eyes, and he choked down a sob that struggled hard with his manliness. “George, before you went away I was married.” The elder brother started, and turned pale to the lips; but he only said,— “Go on, Louis, I listen.”