"I admit that I am strongly moved.I do not excuse myself in the least;and yet you know I was misled.I must tell you plainly that Ida Mayhew is not a girl to be trifled with.I fear her mother wholly fails in understanding her,and from what you yourself have told me of her father,she has no help there.She has no brother,and you should take the place of one,as far as possible.The only right I have to speak thus is on the ground of the great wrong I have done her,and for which I can never forgive myself.Miss Mayhew and I are comparative strangers and our brief summer sojourn here will soon be over.By mere accident facts have come to my knowledge to-night which prove in the most emphatic manner,that she requires kind,unobtrusive,but vigilant care.I never knew of a girl who needed a brother more than she.She is not bad at heart--far from it,but she is fearfully rash,and she is warped by education,or its lack,and by the vile literature she has read,to such a degree that she cannot see things in their true moral aspects.I'll give you a plain hint,and then you must not ask me anything further,for both you and I must be able to say that the history of my last interview was never given.My hint is this--Ido not believe that self-destruction ever appeared to Miss Mayhew as an awful and revolting crime.Her actual life,hitherto,has been a round of frivolity.Only on the stage or in the absurd woes of her stilted heroes and heroines,has she given any attention to the sad and serious side of life.Men and women committing suicide to slow music is the chief stock in trade in some quarters,and when serious trouble came to her this devil's comedy had been robbed of its horror by the clap-trap of stage effect.That is the only way in which I can account for it all or excuse her.But the fact that she recoiled from Sibley so strongly and felt the disgrace of her association so keenly,proves that she possesses a true woman's nature.But,as I said,she needs a brother's care.You are nearest of kin,Stanton,and you must give it.Indeed,Ik,pardon the freedom of an old friend whom circumstances have strangely mixed up in this affair,I think you are honor-bound to give this brother's protection;and you ARE a man of honor if you pass your word.""Do you--do you think there is still any danger that she will---""No;the danger is passed for this occasion;but you must guard her from deep despondency or strong provocation in the future.""The task you require is a difficult one.I doubt whether she ever forgives me even.""I think she will.I have also learned to-night that genuine kindness and sympathy have great weight with her.Pledge me your word that you will do the best you can.""Well,Van,I suppose I ought--I will.But your words have quite unnerved me.""Unnerved!I'm worse than that.I feel as if I had passed through a month's illness.Never breathe a whisper of all this to any one.

Good-night."And he strode away in the darkness.

Having reached a secluded spot,he ground the phial of laudanum that Ida had given him under his heel with the vindictiveness with which he would stamp out the life of a poisonous reptile.

Then he returned to his room and took out Ida's letter,but his hands trembled so that he could scarcely open it.As he read,they trembled still more,and his face became almost ashen in its hue.

He was so appalled at what might have happened that his heart seemed for a second to cease its pulsations.

"Great God!"he said,in a hoarse whisper--"what an escape I've had!"Hour after hour passed,but he sat motionless,staring at the abyss into which he had almost stumbled.

The song of a bird without reminded him that morning was near.He drew the curtain and saw that the dawn was reddening the sky.

"Thank God,"he cried,fervently,"for the escape we both have had!"Then,in order to throw off the horrible nightmare that had oppressed him,he stole quietly out into the fresh,cool,dewy air.