Miss Stuart was a tall and very dignified person. Twenty years ago, the thirsty cravings of Charles Augustus had dragged him into pecuniary difficulties, from which he only extricated himself by selling Balquhalloch and all its contents to his sister; and from that time, Miss Stuart was mistress of the fine old house, and maintained herself there in a style almost worthy of the descendant of a hundred kings. She was rich, her mother’s relations having at different times bequeathed to her sums amounting in the aggregate to nearly three-quarters of a million; and she was generous, as all the poor of her neighbourhood would gladly testify; but, as I have already said, she was eccentric. She regarded herself as a British princess; she insisted upon her servants treating her as such; she lived in considerable state, and had a large household; and whenever she had occasion to sign her name, she signed it magnificently, ‘Henrietta Maria, P.’ Young Charles Edward, on the other hand, inherited no fortune worth speaking of. His father had squandered his means in dissipation; and dying, left a paltry five thousand pounds, upon the interest of which the son, until 1880, lived in chambers in the Inner Temple. Up to that time he had no direct communication with his magnificent aunt, who, after purchasing Balquhalloch, had quarrelled with his father. In the spring of the year, however, Charles Edward happened to be breakfasting with his friend Tom Checkstone, who called his attention to the following advertisement in the _Morning Post_: ‘A Personage of rank requires the services of a private secretary. Applicant must be energetic, well educated, of good address, and willing to spend the greater part of his time in the country.—Send full particulars to the Steward of the Household, Balquhalloch, N.B.’ ‘Balquhalloch is your aunt’s place; is it not? I wonder who has taken it?’ asked Tom. ‘No one has taken it. My aunt always lives there; and, what is more, she is the Personage of rank.’ ‘Your aunt! Have they been making her a peeress, then?’ demanded Tom incredulously. ‘She’s a little weak in her head, you know, on the subject of our supposed royal descent,’ returned Charles Edward; ‘and she insists upon regarding herself as a princess.’ ‘And if she is a princess, what are you, Charlie?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t troubled myself to go deeply into the matter; but I suppose that in her estimation I am the legitimate king of England, or rather, of Great Britain. My grandfather claimed to be the representative of the House of Stuart; so, of course, as the only son of his only son, I inherit that great but somewhat barren honour.’ ‘Well, I have made up my mind to write to your eccentric aunt’s Steward of the Household,’ said Tom. ‘I have little to do, and, what is far more serious, little to live upon; and if the Princess will give me five hundred a year, Her Royal Highness shall have my services.—Is she rich?’