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boy.”
    â€œA species of moral suicide.”
    â€œWhat’s that? Your style of expression today is a kind of secret cipher. I haven’t the key. Please explain.”
    Jack resumed his pipe, and bent down his head; then he rubbed his broad brow with his unoccupied hand; then he raised himself up, and looked at me for a few moments in solemn silence; then he said, in a low voice, speaking each word separately and with thrilling emphasis:

Chapter 3 “MACRORIE — OLD CHAP — I’M — GOING — TO — BE — MARRIED!!!”
    At that astounding piece of intelligence, I sat dumb and stared fixedly at Jack for the space of half an hour. He regarded me with a mournful smile. At last my feelings found expression in a long, solemn, thoughtful, anxious, troubled, and perplexed whistle.
    I could think of only one thing. It was a circumstance which Jack had confided to me as his bosom-friend. Although he had confided the same thing to at least a hundred other bosom-friends, and I knew it, yet, at the same time, the knowledge of this did not make the secret any the less a confidential one; and I had accordingly guarded it like my heart’s blood, and all that sort of thing, you know. Nor would I even now, divulge that secret, were it not for the fact that the cause for secrecy is removed. The circumstance was this: About a year before, we had been stationed at Fredericton, in the Province of New Brunswick. Jack had met there a young lady from St. Andrews, named Miss Phillips, to whom he had devoted himself with his usual ardor. During a sentimental sleigh-ride he had confessed his love, and had engaged himself to her; and, since his arrival at Quebec, he had corresponded with her very faithfully. He considered himself as destined by Fate to become the husband of Miss Phillips at some time in the dim future, and, the only marriage before him that I could think of was this. Still I could not understand why it had come upon him so suddenly, or why, if it did come, he should so collapse under the pressure of his doom.
    â€œWell,” said I, after I had rallied somewhat, “I didn’t think it was to come off so soon. Some luck has turned up, I suppose.”
    â€œLuck!” repeated Jack, with an indescribable accent.
    â€œI assure you, though I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing Miss Phillips, yet, from your description, I admire her quite fervently, and congratulate you from the bottom of my heart.”
    â€œMiss Phillips!” repeated Jack, with a groan.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, old chap?”
    â€œIt isn’t — her!” faltered Jack.
    â€œWhat!”
    â€œShe’ll have to wear the willow.”
    â€œYou haven’t broken with her — have you?” I asked.
    â€œShe’ll have to forgive and forget, and all that sort of thing. If it was Miss Phillips, I wouldn’t be so confoundedly cut up about it.”
    â€œWhy — what is it? who is it? and what do you mean?”
    Jack looked at me. Then he looked down, and frowned. Then he looked at me again; and then he said, slowly, and with a powerful effort:

Chapter 4 “IT’S —THE — THE WIDOW! IT’S MRS. — FINNIMORE!!!”
    Had a bombshell burst — but I forbear. That comparison is, I believe, somewhat hackneyed. The reader will therefore be good enough to appropriate the point of it, and understand that the shock of this intelligence was so overpowering that I was again rendered speechless.
    â€œYou see,” said Jack, after a long and painful silence, “it all originated out of an infernal mistake. Not that I ought to be sorry for it, though. Mrs. Finnimore, of course, is a deuced fine woman. I’ve been round there ever so long, and seen ever so much of her, and all that sort of thing, you know. Oh, yes,” he added, dismally; “I ought to be glad, and, of course, I’m a deuced lucky fellow, and all that; but —