loped a domestic side.

Greta was born to them after a year of marriage. The instinct of the
"freeman" was, however, not dead in Paul; he became a gambler. He lost
the remainder of his fortune without being greatly disturbed. When he
began to lose his wife's fortune too things naturally became more
difficult. Not too much remained when Nicholas Treffry stepped in, and
caused his sister to settle what was left on her daughters, after
providing a life-interest for herself and Paul. Losing his supplies, the
good man had given up his cards. But the instinct of the "freeman" was
still living in his breast; he took to drink. He was never grossly
drunk, and rarely very sober. His wife sorrowed over this new passion;
her health, already much enfeebled, soon broke down. The doctors sent
her to the Tyrol. She seemed to benefit by this, and settled down at
Botzen. The following year, when Greta was just ten, she died. It was a
shock to Paul. He gave up excessive drinking; became a constant smoker,
and lent full rein to his natural domesticity. He was fond of both the
girls, but did not at all understand them; Greta, his own daughter, was
his favourite. Villa Rubein remained their home; it was cheap and roomy.
Money, since Paul became housekeeper to himself, was scarce.

About this time Mrs. Decie, his wife's sister, whose husband had died in
the East, returned to England; Paul invited her to come and live with
them. She had her own rooms, her own servant; the arrangement suited
Paul--it was economically sound, and there was some one always there to
take care of the girls. In truth he began to feel the instinct of the
"freeman" rising again within him; it was pleasant to run over to Vienna
now and then; to play piquet at a Club in Gries, of which he was the
shining light; in a word, to go "on the tiles" a little. One could not
always mourn--even if a woman were an angel; moreover, his digestion was
as good as ever.

The fourth quarter of this Villa was occupied by Nicholas Treffry, whose
annual sojourn out of England perpetually surprised himself. Between him
and his young niece, Christian, there existed, however, a rare sympathy;
one of those affections between the young and old, which, mysteriously
born like everything in life, seems the only end and aim to both, till
another feeling comes into the younger heart.

Since a long and dangerous illness, he had been ordered to avoid the
English winter, and at the c