Upon Lord Ethalwood’s return to Broxbridge, he summoned his butler, Mr. Jakyl, to his presence. He was sitting alone in his library at this time, and before him rose, like so many ghosts, all the hopes he had centred in his beautiful daughter. He remembered her as a lovely laughing child――as a merry and artless girl. His brow was dark, and his eyes were red with weeping. Despite his pride, his sternness, his terrible contempt and scorn, there was something pitiful in the proud man’s silent, solitary despair. Never again was he destined to hear the gay young voice――never more to watch the beautiful face. She was worse, ten thousand times worse, than dead. If she had been snatched from him by the icy fingers of death, he could have loved her still――could have visited her grave――he could have spoken of her, but she was dishonoured and disgraced――she had brought scorn and contempt down upon the very name of Ethalwood. “Ahem! did you ring, my lord?” said the butler, who had crept so quietly into the room that his master was not aware of his presence. It was a way he had――he was so very soft and gentle in his movements. “Ah, it’s you, Jakyl.” The butler bowed. “Yes, I rang――let me see, what was it for? Ah, I remember. You know the handwriting of your late mistress?” “Yes, my lord.” “For the future I desire you to look carefully over all the letters addressed to me before I see them, and, should there be any in the handwriting of your late young mistress, destroy them.” “Destroy them?” “Yes, sirrah; burn them――that’s what I mean.” “Yes, my lord,” returned the butler with another bow. He was surprised, but was too discreet a man to let any expression of it be seen on his countenance, which was as inexpressive as that of a wax doll. He withdrew from the apartment in the same noiseless way in which he had entered. After this time Lord Ethalwood lived as if he had no daughter. Mr. Jakyl was the only person who knew how many heart-broken letters came to Broxbridge Hall; he never referred again to the subject to any living creature. He knew very well the uncompromising nature of his master, and knew, moreover, that it was more than his place was worth to be outspoken on so painful a subject. So time passed on, and the name of the young girl who had been his idol in days gone by was never even mentioned; all trace of her had disappeared, and she was as one dead, and to all appearance even the fact of her having had existence was entirely forgotten. His two sons he took great pride in. He hoped and expected that they would do honour to his name. Reginald, the eldest, was proud and haughty like his father. The younger one was soft and womanly; he had not by any means so robust a constitution as his brother, but he was a general favourite, being especially kind and considerate to all who came within his influence.