As children, Norman and I knew little of the glories of King's Court. They had been waning ever since our mother's death, which even my brother could not remember. We knew in after days that she had been alike good and beautiful—a woman of culture, refinement, and strong religious principle, whose faith was manifested by her daily life. Our father had been used to lean on her, rather than she on him, for, though noble looking and most devoted to his wife, he was weak-willed, and easily led either for good or evil. After having lost the love of his life, he cared little what became of home, self, or even the children she had bequeathed to him. A season of violent, unreasoning grief was followed by years of reckless living. The stately man became a wreck of his old self, and all his surroundings changed for the worse. King's Court was robbed of all the treasures its owner had the power to dispose of, and old friends held aloof from its master, whilst they shook their heads and looked pityingly after the children who ran almost wild, and scarcely heeded by the one parent left to them. It was said that Mr. Savell would have married again for money rather than love some six years after his wife's death, but that Norman and I were the obstacles. The lady would have accepted the owner of King's Court, and dedicated her wealth to the paying off of mortgages and re-purchase of its scattered treasures, if there had been no son to whom the broad acres must eventually pass. But she did not care to redeem the estates for another woman's child to inherit, so this plan fell through. Norman and I could remember how, once, in a fit of passion, our father used hard words to us, called us "clogs" and "incumbrances," and uttered some wish, the purport of which, happily, did not reach our ears. Such hard words were exceptional. As a rule, we were only neglected. But for our vicar, Mr. Pemberton, we might have grown-up with less education than many of the village children received, but he pleaded for permission to teach Norman with his own boys, and induced my father to place me under the governess who instructed his own little Lucy. When I was ten and Norman eleven years old, a new era began in our young lives. Our father had gone out with the hounds in the early morning, and, after a hard run, had indulged too freely at table. Refusing the offered hospitality of the neighbour at whose house he dined, he insisted that he must sleep at King's Court, and started homeward in the darkness and alone. At midnight, the waiting servants heard the clattering of a horse's feet as it galloped down the avenue. It was their master's hunter, but riderless, and a brief search resulted in the discovery of our father's dead body on the road. He had been thrown from his horse, and his temple having struck on a sharp stone, he had died instantly.