"Poor little girl!" said Darrell, pityingly. He understood now the

wistful, appealing look of the brown eyes. He intended to say something

expressive of sympathy, but the right words would not come. He could

think of nothing that did not sound stilted and formal. Almost

unconsciously he laid his hand with a tender caress on the slender

little white hand lying near him, much as he would have laid it on a

wounded bird; and just as unconsciously, the little hand nestled

contentedly, like a bird, within his clasp.

A few days later Darrell heard from Walcott the story of Harry

Whitcomb's love for his cousin. It had been reported, Walcott said, in

low tones, as though imparting a secret, that young Whitcomb was

hopelessly in love with Miss Underwood, but that she seemed rather

indifferent to his attentions. It was thought, however, that the old

gentleman had favored the match, as he had given his nephew an interest

in his mining business, and had the latter lived and proved himself a

good financier, it was believed that Mr. Underwood would in time have

bestowed his daughter upon him.

Darrell listened silently. Of young Whitcomb, of his death, and of his

own part in that sad affair he had often heard, but no mention of

anything of this nature. He sat lost in thought.

"Of course, you know how sadly the romance ended," Walcott continued,

wondering somewhat at Darrell's silence. "I have understood that you

were a witness of young Whitcomb's tragic death."

"I know from hearsay, that is all," Darrell replied, quietly; "I have

heard the story a number of times."

Walcott expressed great surprise. "Pardon me, Mr. Darrell, for referring

to the matter. I had heard something regarding the peculiar nature of

your malady, but I had no idea it was so marked as that. Is it possible

that you have no recollection of that affair?"

"None whatever," Darrell answered, briefly, as though he did not care to

discuss the matter.

"How strange! One would naturally have supposed that anything so

terrible, so shocking to the sensibilities, would have left an

impression on your mind never to have been effaced! But I fear the

subject is unpleasant to you, Mr. Darrell; pardon me for having alluded

to it."

The conversation turned, but Darrell could not banish the subject from

his thoughts. Kate had often spoken to him of her cousin, but never as a

lover. He recalled his portrait at The Pines; the frank, boyish face

with its winning smile--a bonnie lover surely! Had she, or had she not,

he wondered, learned to reciprocate his love before the tragic ending

came? And if not, did she now regret it?




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