In a small room, called the study, “a thin, tall, aristocratic man, of three-score years and ten,” is seated; around the walls of the apartment are ranged glass bottles, crucibles, together with a variety of other articles, emblematical of a chemical laboratory. The solitary occupant of the studio might be taken for a necromancer of the middle ages, so spectral and weird-like is he in appearance; and at times his deep-sunken eyes seem to light up and flash with unwonted fire, while at others they are cold, inexpressive, and passionless. His long bony fingers are busily occupied in reaching ever and anon some ponderous volume, the pages of which he scans with a curious and absorbing interest. This old man is Lord Ethalwood, who, despite his years and the sorrow they have brought, is still firm and vigorous――still full of active intellectual life. He is a philosopher――a searcher after truth――a solitary and silent worker in his old ancestral home. To him the wonders revealed by scientific research have been a solace and a comfort in the hours of his affliction. He has pursued his studies with unwearying industry; has never relaxed, but has worked as hard――and, indeed, harder, perhaps――than many men whose means of existence depended upon their own exertions. There is good reason for this: the recluse at Broxbridge needed some occupation to drive away the miserable thoughts which at times took possession of him. Without some such employment his life would have been one long sorrow. He had made chemistry his study, he had also dipped deeply into the science of astrology, and when wearied of these he followed up his train of observations in astronomy. At the top of his palatial residence he had erected an observatory. This was furnished with a large telescope, which was said to be the finest in the country. He had always had a taste for scientific pursuits; in the later years of his life it was a passion with him. He had little else to occupy his thoughts, for he had long since withdrawn himself from society, and with the exception of a few choice friends he did not much care about mixing with what is called the fashionable world. Nevertheless he was not altogether a recluse: with those who knew him best he was the same genial, courtly, high-bred gentleman, whose presence was deemed an ornament in any fashionable or aristocratic coterie. But a deep shadow had fallen on the house of Ethalwood――a shadow which no ray of sunlight dispelled. For an hour or so the master of Broxbridge remained in his studio, working out some difficult problem in chemistry. Presently he arose, passed out of his laboratory, and made his way to the observatory. To reach this he had to pass through the picture gallery, on the walls of which were ranged in chronological order portraits of his dead ancestors.