Chester was borne into the box-office, and a medical man sent for, under whose ministrations he recovered consciousness, and soon after was able to declare who he was and his ability to return home unaided.

In the short conversation, the doctor, upon learning that his patient was a fellow-practitioner, took upon himself to utter a few words of warning.

“Mustn’t trifle with this sort of thing, my friend,” he said.  “You know that as well as I can tell you, eh?”

“Yes, yes,” said Chester, irritably; “I’ll take more care.  I have been over-doing it lately, but,” he added, with a curious laugh, “you see I was taking a little relaxation to-night.”

“Humph!  Yes, I see,” said the doctor, watching him curiously.  “Well, you feel that you can go home alone?”

“Oh yes; see me into a cab, please.  Thanks for all you have done.  Only a touch of vertigo.”

“`Only a touch of vertigo,’” said the strange doctor, as he saw the hansom driven off. “`Only a touch of vertigo’ means sometimes the first step towards a lunatic asylum.”

“Ah!” muttered Chester, while being driven homewards, “people look at me as if I were going wrong in my head.  I wonder whether I am.”

He laughed as he let himself in and heard a rustle on the stairs.  “Watching again,” he said to himself.  “And they think I’m going wrong, I suppose.  But how strange!  That utter denial of all knowledge of me.  Even she!”

He went into his room, and sat thinking of the incidents of the day and evening for some hours before throwing himself upon his bed, but was down at the usual time in the morning, partook of the unsocial breakfast and rose almost without saying a word.

“Yes, what is it?” said Chester, sharply, for Laura hurried to his side and laid her hand upon his arm.  “Money for housekeeping?”

“No ­no!” cried his sister, angrily, and there she paused.

“Well, speak, then; don’t stop me.  I am busy this morning.”

“I must stop you, Fred,” cried Laura, passionately.  “We cannot go on like this.”

“Why?” he said calmly.  “Because we are brother and sister.  We have always been as one together.  You have had no secrets from me.  I have had none from you.  I have always been so proud of my brother’s love for me, but now all at once everything comes to an end.  You withhold your confidence.”

“No; my confidence, perhaps, for the time being,” he said gravely; “not my love from you.  God forbid.”

“But you do, Fred.”

“No; it is more the other way on,” he replied.  “You have withheld your love from me, and checked any disposition I might have felt to confide in you.”

“Fred!”

“Don’t deny it,” he said quietly.  “Since I was called away so strangely, and kept away against my will ­”

“Against your will!” cried Laura, scornfully.

“Hah!” he cried, “it is of no use to argue with you, my child.  Poor old aunt has so thoroughly imbued you with her doctrines of suspicion that everything I say will be in vain.”

“Imbued me with her suspicions!” cried Laura, angrily.  “That is it; because I am quite a girl still you treat me as if I were a child.  Do you ­oh, I cannot say it! ­yes, I will; I am your sister, and it is my duty to try and save you from something which will cause you regret to the end of your days.  Do you dare to deny that you have got into some wretched entanglement ­something which has suddenly turned you half mad?”

“No,” he said quietly.  “That is so.”

“Then how can you go on like this?  You have broken poor Isabel’s heart, estranged everybody’s love from you, and are running headlong to ruin.  Fred ­brother, for all our sakes, stop before it is too late.”

He looked at her mournfully, took her hand and kissed it, and with a passionate burst of sobbing she flung her arms about his neck and clung there.

“Then you do repent, Fred?  You will go there no more.  Listen, dear; I forgive you everything now, because you are going to be my true, brave, noble brother again, and after a time ­some day ­Isabel will forgive you too; for she does love you still, Fred, in spite of all.  There ­there,” she cried, kissing him again and again, “it is all over now.”

Chester loosened her hands from his neck and shook his head sadly.

“No, Laury,” he said, “it is not all over now.”

“What!” she cried quickly.  “You will not ­you cannot go back now.”

“Yes,” he said, “even if you do not forgive me, I must.”

“Fred!”

“Look here, little one,” he said wearily; “you have grown to think and act like a woman, and you complain that I do not confide in you.  Well, I will be frank with you to some extent.  Laura dear, I am not my own master.  I cannot do as you wish.”

“Fred, you must.”

“Say that to some poor creature who is smitten with a terrible mental complaint; tell him he must be ill no longer, but cast off the ailment.  What will he reply?”

He paused for an answer, but his sister stood gazing at him without a word.

“He will tell you that he would do so gladly, but that it is impossible.”

“But this is not impossible, Fred,” cried Laura; “and you are again treating me like a child.  Yes, I have begun to think like a woman, and though it may sound shameless I will speak out.  Do you think that we do not know that all this is wicked dissipation?”

He laughed bitterly, as he pressed his hand to his weary head.

“You do not know ­you do not know.”

“Yes,” cried Laura, embracing him again; “I know that my poor brother has yielded to some temptation, but I know, too, that it only needs a strong, brave, manly effort to throw it all off; and then we might be happy once more.”

He took her face between his hands and looked down at her lovingly for a few minutes, then kissed her brow tenderly.

“No,” he said; “you do not understand, my child.  I am not master of my actions now.”

He hurried from the room.  Then she heard the door close, and his footsteps hurrying up the stairs followed by the banging of his door.

“Lost, lost!” she wailed; and she threw herself sobbing upon the couch.

“Well!” said a sharp voice, and the girl started up and tried hard to remove all traces of her tears.

“I did not hear you come in, aunt dear.”

“Perhaps not, my love, but I have been waiting and listening.  Well, what does he say about coming home in that state last night?  I’m sure, my dear, that was wine!  Is he going to be a good boy now?”

Laura uttered a passionate sob.

“Oh no, aunt, oh no!” she cried.

“Because if he is and will repent very seriously, I may some day, perhaps, forgive him.  But I must have full assurance that he is really sorry for all his wickedness.  What did he say, child?”

“Nothing, aunt.  It is hopeless ­hopeless.”

“Then I was right at first.  He has gone quite out of his mind, and I fully believe that it is our duty to have him put under restraint.”

“Aunt!” cried Laura, wildly.

“Yes, my dear.  That is the only cure for such a complaint as his.  A private asylum, Laury dear.”

“Oh, aunt, impossible!  How can you say anything so horrible?”

“My dearest child, nothing can be horrible that is to do a person good.  It is quite evident to me that he can no longer control his actions.”

“No, he said so,” sobbed Laura.

“Hah!  I knew I was right.  Well, then, my dear, we must think it over seriously.  You see, the weakness must have come on suddenly.  How, he and somebody else best know,” said the lady, with asperity.  “You see, attacks like that are only temporary, and his would, I am sure, yield to proper treatment.  Now let me see what ought to be the first steps?  This is a valuable practice, if he has not completely wrecked it by his wicked dissipation, and I think it ought to be our first duty, my dear, to get a permanent locum tenens ­a man of some eminence, who might be induced to come if some hope were held out to him of a future partnership.  Then we could consult him about what to do, for I believe certificates have to be obtained before a patient is sent to an asylum.”

“Aunt!  Are you going mad too?” cried Laura, angrily.

“Laura! my child!”

“Well, then, you should not say such horrid things about Fred. Consult a perfect stranger about putting him into a lunatic asylum!  Oh, shame!”

“Shame to you, Laura, for daring to speak to me as you do.  Do you want him to have one of those what-do-you-call-thems? ­Para-para-para-dox ­ no, no, paroxysms; and then do as mad people always do, turn against those they love best?  Do you want him to come some night and murder us both in our beds?”

“No, aunt, of course not,” said Laura, growing more cool and matter-of-fact now.

“Then do not from any false sentiment begin to oppose me.  A few months under proper treatment in a good private asylum, and he would come back completely strengthened and cured.  Now, let me see; I think under the circumstances that we ought first of all, my dear, to take poor dear Isabel into our confidences.”

“Aunt!” cried Laura; “if you dare to tell Isabel that you think such a dreadful thing of poor Fred I don’t know what I will not do.”

“Dare, Laura, dare?” said Aunt Grace, sternly.

“Yes, aunt, dare!” cried the girl.  “If you do I’ll tell poor Bel that it is one of your hallucinations, and that you have got softening of the brain.”

“Laura!” shrieked the old lady, as she sank back in the nearest chair.  “Oh, that I should live to hear such words!  You horrible, abandoned child!”

“I’m very sorry, auntie,” said Laura, coolly, “but you always impressed upon me that I should tell the truth.  You must be getting imbecile, or you would never have proposed such a dreadful thing.”

“Laura!”

“Yes, aunt; it is a sign, too, that you know it is coming on.  You must have been thinking of madhouses, and that made you speak.”

“Worse and worse!” wailed the old lady.  “You must be getting as bad as your brother.  Actually siding with him now!”

“No, aunt, only pitying him, for I am beginning to believe that he is suffering worse than we are.”