priest's spirits, and to humour him in his
temporary fretfulness, being the silent younger son
of Saturnin Siadoux.

Both Louis and Thomas noticed that, from
the moment when Monsieur Chaubard's manner
first betrayed his singular unwillingness to touch
on the subject of their father's absence, Jean
fixed his eyes on the priest, with an expression
of suspicious attention; and never looked away
from him for the rest of the evening. The young
man's absolute silence at table did not surprise
his brothers, for they were accustomed to
his taciturn habits. But the sullen distrust
betrayed in his close observations of the
honoured guest and friend of the family, surprised
and angered them. The priest himself seemed
once or twice to be aware of the scrutiny to
which he was subjected, and to feel uneasy and
offended, as he naturally might. He abstained,
however, from openly noticing Jean's strange
behaviour; and Louis and Thomas were bound,
therefore, in common politeness to abstain from
noticing it also.

The inhabitants of Croix-Daurade kept early
hours. Towards eleven o'clock the company
rose and separated for the night. Except the
two neighbours, nobody had enjoyed the supper,
and even the two neighbours having eaten their
fill, were as glad to get home as the rest. In
the little confusion ot parting. Monsieur Chaubard
completed the astonishment of the guests
at the extraordinary change in him, by slipping
away alone, without waiting to bid anybody
good night.

The widow Mirailhe and her nieces withdrew
to their bedrooms, and left the three brothers by
themselves in the parlour.

"Jean," said Thomas Siadoux, "I have a
word to say to you. "You stared at our good
Monsieur Chaubard in a very offensive manner
all through the evening. What did you mean
by it?"

"Wait till to-morrow," said Jean; "and
perhaps I may tell you."

He lit his candle, and left them. Both the
brothers observed that his hand trembled, and that
his manner never very winning was, on that
night more serious and more unsociable than
usual.

                         III.

     THE YOUNGER BROTHER.

WHEN post-time came on the morning of the
twenty-seventh, no letter arrived from Saturnin
Siadoux. On consideration, the family interpreted
this circumstance in a favourable light.
If the master of the house had not written to
them, it followed, surely, that he meant to
make writing unnecessary by returning on that
day.

As the hours passed, the widow and her nieces
looked out, from time to time, for the absent
man. Towards noon, they observed a little
assembly of people approaching the village.
Ere long, on a nearer view, they recognised at
the head of the assembly, the chief magistrate
of Toulouse, in his official dress. He was
accompanied by his Assessor (also in his official
dress), by an escort of archers, and by certain
subordinates attached to the town-hall. These
last appeared to be carrying some burden, which
was hidden from view by the escort of archers.
The procession stopped at the house of Saturnin
Siadoux; and the two daughters hastening to
the door, to discover what had happened—met
the burden which the men were carrying, and
saw, stretched on a litter, the dead body of their
father.

Tlie corpse had been found that morning on
the banks of river Lers. It was stabbed in
eleven places with knife or dagger wounds.
None of the valuables about the dead man's
person had been touched; his watch and his
money were still in his pockets. Whoever had
murdered him, had murdered him for vengeance,
not for gain.

Some time elapsed before even the male
members of the family were sufficiently composed to
hear what the officers of justice had to say to
them. When this result had been at length
achieved, and when the necessary inquiries had
been made, no information of any kind was
obtained which pointed to the murderer, in the
eye of the law. After expressing his sympathy,
and promising that every available means should
be tried to effect the discovery of the criminal,
the chief magistrate gave his orders to his
escort, and withdrew.

When night came the sister and the daughters
of the murdered man retired to the upper part of
the house, exhausted by the violence of their grief.
The three brothers were left once more alone in the
parlour, to speak together of the awful calamity
which had befallen them. They were of hot
Southern blood, and they looked on one another
with a Southern thirst for vengeance in their
tearless eyes.

The silent younger son was now the first to
open his lips.

"You charged me, yesterday," he said to his
brother Thomas, "with looking strangely at
Monsieur Chaubard all the evening; and I
answered that I might tell you why I looked at
him when to-morrow came. To-morrow has
come, and I am ready to tell you."

He waited a little, and lowered his voice to
a whisper when he spoke again.

"When Monsieur Chaubard was at pur supper-
table last night," he said, "I had it in my
mind that something had happened to our father,
and that the priest knew it."

The two elder brothers looked at him in
speechless astonishment.

"Our father has been brought back to us a
murdered man!" Jean went on, still in a whisper.
"I tell you, Louis—and you, Thomas—that the
priest knows who murdered him."

Louis and Thomas shrank from their younger
brother, as if he had spoken blasphemy.

"Listen," said Jean. "No clue has been
found to the secret of the murder.
magistrate has promised us to do his best—but I saw
in his face that he had little hope. We must
make the discovery ourselves—or our father's