The incident had almost vanished
from my remembrance, when one day young Brodie, who is a
second cousin of mine, came up to me on the university steps with
the face of a bearer of tidings.
"I say," he began, "you know Reeves, don't you?"
"Yes. What of him?"
"His engagement is off."
"Off!" I cried. "Why, I only learned the other day that it was
on."
"Oh, yes--it's all off. His brother told me so. Deucedly mean of
Reeves, you know, if he has backed out of it, for she was an
uncommonly nice girl."
"I've seen her," I said; "but I don't know her name."
"She is a Miss Northcott, and lives with an old aunt of hers in
Abercrombie Place. Nobody knows anything about her people, or
where she comes from. Anyhow, she is about the most unlucky girl
in the world, poor soul!"
"Why unlucky?"
"Well, you know, this was her second engagement," said young
Brodie, who had a marvellous knack of knowing everything about
everybody. "She was engaged to Prescott--William Prescott, who
died. That was a very sad affair. The wedding day was fixed, and
the whole thing looked as straight as a die when the smash came."
"What smash?" I asked, with some dim recollection of the
circumstances.
"Why, Prescott's death. He came to Abercrombie Place one night,
and stayed very late. No one knows exactly when he left, but
about one in the morning a fellow who knew him met him walking
rapidly in the direction of the Queen's Park.
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