"Abner left to-night, perhaps never to return he said," she went on, wiping the tears from her face.
"I see you have been weeping, dear Irene. I have more news for you. I too have to bid you what may prove a long farewell. I leave to-night for our camp, and shall soon march to join the main army. But I can not leave you, Irene, without telling you of something I have long kept a secret."
Irene could not speak; sobs choked her voice. Then from Oleah's lips fell those same startling words:
"I am not your brother."
She sat motionless. Then it must be true. They could not both be mistaken, could not both possess the same hallucination. If anyone was mad, it was herself. But Oleah went on in his quick passionate way:
"You are not my sister, dearest Irene, and that you are not gives me only joy. When you were left at our house a tiny baby, I claimed you for my sister, and when I learned you could not be my sister, I said you should one day be my wife. I loved from the first time those bright eyes laughed into mine, and that love has grown with my growth and strengthened with my strength, until it has taken possession of my entire being. O, Irene, Irene, you can never know how deep is the love I have born you from early childhood. I could not leave this old home without telling you that I loved you with more than a brother's love."
He paused, and Irene remained silent.
"Speak, Irene! Will you not speak?"
She was still silent, her large dark eyes fixed and staring, her white lips motionless, her whole form rigid as a statue. She thought of Abner's parting words, and pain and terror filled her soul. Had she entered this happy home only to bring discord, to widen the breach between the two brothers?
"O Irene, Irene," he pleaded, "by the memory of our happy childhood I implore you, speak once more before I go. Say that you will love me, that you will pray for me—pray for my safe return, pray for my soul if I fall in battle!"