e respectable people."

If Dora had ever heard of Crackers she knew very little about them, and
cared less. She was greatly excited, and her eyes flashed and glowed
with that light which Mr. Mason and Peter had noticed years before, and
from which the Colonel turned away as from something dangerous.

"My mother was a Cracker? My father was a Mr. Harris--a Cracker, too. I
am not your daughter, as I have been weak enough at times to believe,
and--yes, I will confess it--I was weak enough to be proud that I was a
Crompton; but that is over now; my father and mother were Crackers. I am
a Cracker, and Eudora Harris. I am eighteen, and my own
mistress--amenable to the authority of no one. I am glad for that, as it
makes me free to do as I please. Good evening."

She bowed and left the room, leaving him stunned that she dared defy
him, and half resolved to call her back and tell her the truth. But he
didn't, and it was years before he saw her again.

The next morning she was missing. She had gone with Candida--where, he
took no pains to inquire. She sent him a New York paper, with a notice
of her marriage, and the names of herself and husband in the list of
passengers sailing on the Celtic. He put the paper in the fire with the
tongs, and after that a great silence fell upon the house, and the
Colonel grew more reserved than ever, and more peculiar. He forbade the
servants to mention Dora's name, or tell him where she was, if they
knew. They didn't know, and many years went by, and to all intents and
purposes she was dead to those who had known her as a bright, beautiful
girl. Jake, who wrote to inquire for her, was told that she had run away
and married, and the Colonel neither knew nor cared where she was, and
was not to be troubled with any more letters, which he should not
answer. Jake was silenced, and there was no link connecting the Colonel
with the past, except his memory which lashed him like the stings of
scorpions. His hair turned white as snow; there was a stoop between his
shoulders, and his fifty-five years might have been sixty-five, he aged
so fast, as time went on, and his great house became so intolerable to
him that he at last hailed with delight an event which, sad as it was in
some respects, brought him something of life and an interest in it.

PART II

CHAPTER I

HOWARD CROMPTON TO JACK HARCOURT

"Crompton House, June --, 18--.

"Dear Jack:

"I have bearded the lion in his den and