o be blotted out.
Twenty-seven years ago, and when the fortunate rival had fallen in the
battle of life, ten years later; when his feeble-souled wife had
followed him to the grave, Hugh Darcy's revenge upon her had been to
step forward and take the child of that marriage to his heart and home
to rear him as his own son, to make his will in his favor, leaving him
sole heir to a noble inheritance.

Laurence Thorndyke had sown his wild oats. Well, most young men go in
for that kind of agriculture, and the seed sown had not yet begun to
crop up. He was happily married, and done for, and for himself Mr. Darcy
meant to keep his little "Jennie" with him always, to travel about with
her this coming summer, and leave her a handsome portion at his death.
"For of course," said Mr. Darcy, "she will forget the husband she has
lost, and make some good man happy after I am gone."

He had settled her little romance quite to suit himself. She had crept
with her quiet, gentle, womanly ways into his inmost heart--a very
kindly heart in spite of life's wear and tear; very kindly, yet with a
stubborn sense of justice, and of right and wrong underlying all.
Kindly, yet terribly, obstinately, unforgiving to anything like
immorality, deception or dishonor.

"I love the child almost better than Helen," he thought sometimes. "I
don't want to lose her, and yet I should like to see her safely
sheltered under a husband's wing before I go. There's Richard Gilbert
now. I've often meant to introduce him to her, but somehow she always
slips out of the room and the house when he sends up his card. I wonder
if he's got over the loss of that girl last fall. Some men do get over
that sort of thing they say. I hope Laurence had nothing to do with it.
Gilbert suspected him, I know, but then--'give a dog a bad name and hang
him.' Yes, my little Jennie wouldn't make half a bad wife for Dick
Gilbert. I'll introduce him the very next time he comes."

Mr. Darcy sits before his study fire this chill afternoon alone. Liston
left some hours ago. It is not yet dinner time, and his companion--where
is she? He looks impatiently around--while he took his afternoon nap she
has left him. He listens a moment to the wailing voice of the wind,
sobbing in a melancholy way about the house, then reaches forth
nervously, and rings the bell.

"Send Mrs. Liston here," he says to the servant who answers.

This gray twilight hour is haunted for him, with melancholy flitting
f