A few seconds later, Mr. Alston and Jeremy, from their point of vantage on the verandah, saw Ernest coming with swift strides up the garden-path. His face was drawn with pain, and there was a fleck of blood upon his lip. He passed them without a word, and, entering the house, slammed the door of his own room. Mr. Alston and Jeremy looked at one another. “What’s up?” said the laconic Jeremy. Mr. Alston thought a while before he answered, as was his fashion. “Something gone wrong with ‘the ideal,’ I should say,” he said at length; “that is the way of ideals.” “Shall we go and see?” said Jeremy, uneasily. “No, give him a minute or two to pull himself together. Lots of time for consolation afterwards.” Meanwhile Ernest, having got into his room, sat down upon the bed, and again read the note which was enclosed in Florence’s letter. Then he folded it up and put it down, slowly and methodically. Next he opened the other letter, which he had not yet looked at, and read that too. After he had done it he threw himself face downwards on the pillow, and thought a while. Presently he arose, and, going to the other side of the room, took down a revolver case which hung to a nail, and drew out a revolver, which was loaded. Returning, he again sat down upon the bed, and cocked it. So he remained for a minute or two, and then slowly lifted the pistol towards his head. At that moment he heard footsteps approaching, and, with a quick movement, threw the weapon under the bed. As he did so Mr. Alston and Jeremy entered. [Illustration: “He slowly lifted the pistol towards his head.”] “Any letters, Ernest?” asked the former. “Letters! O yes, I beg your pardon; here they are;” and he took a packet from the pocket of his white coat, and handed them to him. Mr. Alston took them, looking all the while fixedly at Ernest, who avoided his glance. “What is the matter, my boy?” he said kindly, at last; “nothing wrong, I hope?” Ernest looked at him blankly. “What is it, old chap?” said Jeremy, seating himself on the bed beside him, and laying his hand on his arm. Then Ernest broke out into a paroxysm of grief painful to behold. Fortunately for all concerned, it was brief. Had it lasted much longer, something must have given way. Suddenly his mood changed, and he grew hard and bitter. “Nothing, my dear fellows, nothing,” he said; “that is, only the sequel to a pretty little idyl. You may remember a letter I wrote—to a woman—some months back. There, you both of you know the story. Now you shall hear the answer, or, to be more correct, the answers. “That—woman has a sister. Both she and her sister have written to me. My—her sister’s letter is the longest. We will take it first. I think that we may skip the first page, there is nothing particular in it, and I do not wish to—waste your time. Now listen: