Glancing at the envelope in his hand, Brian noticed the postmark “Buenos Aires.” He stopped suddenly, staring dumbly at the words in the circular mark and at the name written on the envelope. Over and over, he read “Buenos Aires,--Miss Susan Wakefield; Buenos Aires,--Miss Susan Wakefield.” Something--His brain seemed to be numb. His hands trembled. He looked about at the familiar surroundings, and everything seemed suddenly strange and unreal to him. He looked again at the letter in his hand, turning it curiously. A strange feeling of oppression and ominous foreboding possessed him as though the bright spring sky were all at once overcast with heavy and menacing storm-clouds. What was it? “Buenos Aires,--Susan Wakefield?” Where had he seen that combination before? What was it that made the name of the Argentine city in connection with Auntie Sue's name seem so familiar? Slowly, he went on to the house, and, finding Auntie Sue, gave her the letter. “Oh!” cried the old lady, as she saw the postmark on the envelope. “It must be from brother John. It is not John's writing, though,” she added, as she opened the envelope. And at her words the feeling of impending disaster so oppressed Brian Kent that only by an effort could he control himself. He was possessed of the strange sensation of having at some time in the past lived the identical experience through which he was at that moment passing. “Susan Wakefield;--a brother John in Buenos Aires, Argentine;--the letter!” It was all so familiar that the allusion was startling in its force. But that ominous cloud,--that sense of some great trouble near that filled him with such unaccountable dread--what could it mean? An exclamation from Auntie Sue drew his attention. She looked at him with tear-filled eyes, and her sweet voice broke as she said: “Brian! Brian! John is dead! This--this letter is from the doctor who attended him.” Tenderly, as he would have helped his own mother, Brian assisted Auntie Sue to her room. For a little while he sat with her, trying to comfort her with such poor words as he could find. Briefly, she told him of the brother who had lived in Argentine for many years. He had married a South-American woman whom Auntie Sue had never seen, and while not wealthy had been moderately prosperous. But he had never forgotten his sister who was so alone in the world. “Several times, when he could, he sent me money for my savings-bank account,” she finished simply, her sweet old voice low and tender with the memories of the years that were gone. “John and I were always very fond of each other. He was a good man, Brian.” Brian Kent sat like a man stricken dumb. Auntie Sue's words, “he sent me money for my savings-bank account,” had made the connection between the names “Buenos Aires, Argentine; John Wakefield; Susan Wakefield,” and the thing for which his mind had been groping with such a sense of impending disaster.