At length, perceiving that further procrastination was impossible, she gazed at me with mournful eyes and declared: “Oh, Eddie, it seems so wicked to speak ill of my family—and particularly of my own older brother, whom I idolized so as a child. He was so dashing—so handsome! Like you, dearest boy!”

Here, she extended her right hand towards my countenance, and—gently placing the fingertips upon my left cheek—patted it lovingly before continuing thusly:

“In my eyes, even his flaws became virtues. For he was terribly headstrong. When he announced his intention to abandon his legal studies, our father was heartbroken. But to me, his determination seemed so admirable, so heroic. David was convinced, you see, that he had been born for the stage, that he was destined to achieve immortality as an actor.”

“Did you ever see him perform?” I inquired.

“Once,” said the good woman with a heavy sigh. “Here in Baltimore, at the New Theatre, in a production of a very amusing play.”

“Sebastian Barnwell, or The Brazen Lover?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” replied Muddy. “I no longer remember the title. But I recall your father’s performance as though it happened yesterday. I was so excited when he strode onto the stage, dressed as an English gentleman. He seemed the very incarnation of manly nobility. He spoke only a few words that, to my ears, sounded like the sweetest poetry imaginable. But the audience! They hooted and hissed and called out such terrible insults! Poor David! I could see him flush and cringe in mortification. Oh, how savage I felt at that moment Truly, Eddie, had I been armed with a weapon, I believe I would have silenced his tormentors for all eternity. For you see, at that time, my brother could do no wrong.”

Gazing intently upon Muddy’s visage, I took note of a singular phenomenon. Her demeanor—which I had rarely observed in anything other than a state of perfect composure or extreme, maternal solicitude—had grown incensed to the point of lividity. Her complexion, normally of a uniform ruddy hue, was now mottled with deep, crimson patches—her small eyes blazed with indignation—her mouth was contorted into an angry grimace. It was very evident that the memory of her brother’s humiliation remained a source of the most painful, the most galling emotions.

It was nearly a minute before she was capable of resuming her speech. After imbibing several soothing mouthfuls of tea, she declared: “It was shortly after that horrid occasion that I saw my brother for the last time.”

“When was that?” I eagerly inquired, leaning forward in my seat.