"It grew toward evening--cool quiet evening, but there was no quiet in my heart. I was burning with inward fever. "I had had little sleep the night before, something odd and tumultuous seemed rising in my brain; a gleam of fair hair was blinding me. He loves fair women, I thought, and he calls me his dark-eyed Esther. Oh, Raby, I hate her! I hate her! You shall never marry her! You shall never call her your darling! I felt as though I should kill her first; for, indeed, I was nearly wild with passion, they had left me too long alone. "Presently the door opened, and Raby came in. He looked very grave, I thought, as he sat down beside me. His quiet glance recalled me to myself. "'Crystal,' he said, gently, 'have you been ill again, my dear?' They always called the paroxysms 'illness' now, but the word displeased me. "'Where is Margaret?' I asked, sullenly. 'I can not talk to you, Raby. I am weak, and you do not understand. If I am ill, as you say, you should not keep Margaret from me.' "'She is at the schools,' he returned, soothingly, 'I left her with Mrs. Grey--they will be here directly; but, Crystal, my darling, before they come in I want to have a little talk with you. You are better now, are you not? I want to tell you what I have decided to do for my child's welfare. I am going to send her away!' "I sprung up with an exclamation of dismay, but he put me back firmly and quietly on the couch as though I were a child, and went on with his speech. "'Crystal,' he said, rather sternly, 'I claim obedience as your guardian; I claim it legally and morally.' Never had he spoken so severely before. 'I am doing what costs me a great sacrifice. I am going to send you away from us for a little while for your own good; for your own peace and happiness. Alas! I see plainly now, how we have failed to secure either.' I tried to speak, but I could not. I crushed my hands together as though they were in a vise, as I listened. "'Heaven knows,' he continued, sadly, 'how I have tried to do my duty to you, and how Margaret has tried too; how we have loved you, prayed and cared for you, never thinking of ourselves, but only of you. What have we done that you should hide your unhappiness from us? Why did you not come to me and tell me frankly, and like a brave girl, that the sacrifice I asked was too great for you to yield; that your youth and temperament demanded a different life to mine; that the quiet and monotony were killing you; would anything have been too hard for your brother's love?' "I shivered at the word. Oh, Raby, why--why did you utter it? who never were, who never could be a brother of mine. He had never used that word before; it bore a terrible meaning to me now.