"I can't believe it—I can't believe it," he repeated heavily. "Why—why did she not write to me?"
"It wasn't an easy thing to write, I reckon," said the other bitterly, "and she waited for you to come back. She did send one letter, but you were out on the water with your fine friends, and it was returned. The next we heard was the marriage. Word got there two days ago, and then—she told me."
"You!" and he really looked unsympathetic enough to exempt him from being chosen as confidant of heart secrets.
"Yes; and she shan't be sorry for it if I can help it. What about that transfer?"
"I'll make it;" and the younger man rose to his feet again with eyes in which tears shone. "I'll do anything under God's heaven for her! I've never got rid of the sight of her face. It—it hoodooed me. I couldn't get rid of it!—or of remorse. I thought it best to stay away, we were so young to marry, and there was my profession to work for yet; and then on top of all my sensible plans there came that invitation on the yacht—and so you know the whole story; and now—what will become of her?"
"You fix that transfer, and I'll look after her."
"You! I don't deserve this of you, and—"
"No; I don't reckon you do," returned the other, tersely; "and when you—damn your conceit!—catch me doing that or anything else on your account, just let me know. It isn't for either one of you, for that matter. It's because I promised."
The younger dropped his arms and head on the table.
"You promised!" he groaned. "I—I promised as well as you, and mother believed me—trusted me, and, now—oh, mother! mother!"