“Your brother is in your father’s study, sir,” faltered the servant at last.

“Umph!  Will,” said the man, his face changing.  “I’d rather see father first.”

“I think you had better see Mr. William, sir.”

“What’s the matter, Janet?” asked young Carstairs anxiously.  “Is father ill?”

“Yes, sir! indeed I think you had bettor see Mr. William at once, Mr. John.”

Strangely moved by the obvious agitation of the ancient servitor of the house who had known him from childhood, John Carstairs hurried down the long hall to the door of his father’s study.  Always a scapegrace, generally in difficulties, full of mischief, he had approached that door many times in fear of well merited punishment which was sure to be meted out to him.  And he came to it with the old familiar apprehension that night, if from a different cause.  He never dreamed that his father was anything but ill.  He must see his brother.  He stood in no little awe of that brother, who was his exact antithesis in almost everything.  They had not got along particularly well.  If his father had been inside the door he would have hesitated with his hand on the knob.  If his father had not been ill he would not have attempted to face his brother.  But his anxiety, which was increased by a sudden foreboding, for Janet, the maid, had looked at him so strangely, moved him to quick action.  He threw the door open instantly.  What he saw did not reassure him.  William was clad in funeral black.  He wore a long frock coat instead of the usual knockabout suit he affected on the farm.  His face was white and haggard.  There was an instant interchange of names.

“John!”

“William!”

And then—­

“Is father ill?” burst out the younger.

“Janet said—­”

“Dead!” interposed William harshly, all his indignation flaming into speech and action as he confronted the cause of the disaster.

“Dead!  Good God!”

“God had nothing to do with it.”

“You mean?”

“You did it.”

“I?”

“Yes.  Your drunken revelry, your reckless extravagance, your dissipation with women, your unfeeling silence, your—­”

“Stop!” cried the younger.  “I have come to my senses, I can’t bear it.”

“I’ll say it if it kills you.  You did it, I repeat.  He longed and prayed and waited and you didn’t come.  You didn’t write.  We could hear nothing.  The best father on earth.”

The younger man sank down in a chair and covered his face with his hands.

“When?” he gasped out finally.

“Three days ago.”

“And have you—­”

“He is buried beside mother in the churchyard yonder.  Now that you are here I thank God that he didn’t live to see what you have become.”