“It is a painful story, too,” the colonel went on, “for Geoffrey. I loved your mother with all the strength of my nature—as a man loves but once in his life—and when I lost her the world became a blank to me, while even now it is almost more than I can bear to speak of it. I cannot tear the wound open and live over all that experience more than once, and if you do not object, I would like Mrs. Mapleson to be present while I make my confession.” Mr. Huntress urged him to act according to his own wishes in the matter. As far as he was concerned Mrs. Mapleson’s presence would make no difference, unless the situation should prove to be too trying for her. “She must know it within a few hours at the farthest, and it will also be necessary for her to meet you; so it might as well be done at once. What do you say, Geoffrey?” Colonel Mapleson asked, turning to his son. “Do just what you think will be for the best, sir,” he replied; and his father immediately arose and left the room. “Estelle,” he said, going into his wife’s boudoir, where she sat, handsome and stately, reading the latest magazine, “will you come down to the library for a little while. I have some callers to whom I wish to introduce you.” Something unusual in her husband’s tone made Mrs. Mapleson drop her book and search his face. He was white to his lips. “Why, William, what ails you? Has anything happened to Everet?” she questioned, anxiously, her motherhood aroused for her child. “Everet is well, so far as I know, but——” “Surely you are ill, or you have bad news?” she interrupted. “No, I am not ill, although some business of a painful nature has upset me a trifle,” he answered, knowing that he was looking wretched, and not attempting to conceal his agitation. “You know I do not like to be mixed up with business transactions,” his wife replied, with an impatient shrug of her shapely shoulders. “But I particularly desire your presence while I make a statement to those gentlemen,” Colonel Mapleson said, striving to speak more calmly, though the hand that was resting on the back of Mrs. Mapleson’s chair trembled in a way to really startle her. “Why, William,” she said, facing him. “have you been getting into financial trouble at your time of life?” “No; it is an error—a mistake made long years ago that I wish to rectify,” he gravely answered. “Who are these people?” she asked, still searching his face earnestly. “A Mr. Huntress and his son from New York.” “Huntress!” repeated the lady, reflectively. “Where have I heard that name before?” “Never mind now, Estelle; you can think of that some other time. Please do not keep me waiting.” He took her hand, laid it on his arm, and led her from the room, while she wondered to see her proud husband in that mood, for there was a gentleness about him, mingled with a humility and a deprecatory air, that was entirely foreign to him.