He has never experienced this jealous, overwhelming tenderness for anything human. He loves his mother with all a son's respect, and has a peculiar sympathy for her. If his father were alive he knows they would be good comrades to stand by each other, to have a certain positive faith and honor in each other's integrity. His brother and sisters--well, he has never known them intimately, even as one gets to know friends, but he will take them upon trust. Then there are two women,--the mother of his child, and that affluent, elegant being across the hall. Does his heart warm to her? And yet she might have been mistress here and the mother of his children. The "might have been" in his thought would comfort his mother greatly, who is wondering, as she moves restlessly on her pillow, if it may not yet be. Floyd Grandon's story comprehends all the rest, so I will give that. Some sixty years before this, two sturdy Englishmen and their sister had come to the New World, with a good deal of energy and some money. The freak that led them up the river to this place was their love of beautiful scenery. Land was cheap, and at first they tried farming, but presently they started a carpet factory, their old business, and being ingenious men, they made some improvements. Ralph Stanwood, another Englishman, joined them. They placed their business two miles farther up, where there were facilities for docks and the privileges they desired. William Grandon married, but only one of his children reached maturity. James and his sister Marcia lived in an old farm-house, single, prudent, turning everything into money, and putting it into land. When James died he left his business to his brother and his share of the farm to Marcia. When William died the business went to his son James, except the small share belonging to Stanwood. James married a stylish young woman who never quite suited Aunt Marcia. They lived in the new village in a pretentious house, and came out now and then to the farm. There were five children, and the second girl was named after the great-aunt, who dowered her with a hundred dollars, to be put in the bank, and a handsome christening robe, then took no further special notice of her. But she liked Floyd, the eldest son, and he was never weary of roaming about the old place and listening through the long evenings to matters she had known of in England, and places she had seen. "Aunt Marcia," he said one day, "just up on that ridge would be a splendid place to build a castle. All the stone could be quarried out around here. I wish you'd let me build it when I am a man." She laughed a little, and took a good survey of the place. Some days after she questioned her nephew about his plans. "Bring Eugene up to the business," she said, briefly. "Four will be enough for your purse. I will look after Floyd."