As to the great man's career, apart from his service in the legislature, which won him his title, there was no other act of his life which marked him apart from his fellows. Suffice it to say that he was born a gentleman without a penny to his name; that he married Kate's mother when she was twenty and he forty (and here is another story, and a sad one)--she the belle of her time--and sole heir to the estate of her grandfather, Captain Hugh Barkeley, the rich ship-owner--and that the alliance had made him a gentleman of unlimited leisure, she, at her death, having left all her property to her daughter Kate, with the Honorable Prim as custodian. And this trust, to his credit be it said--for Seymour was of Scotch descent, a point in his favor with old Captain Barkeley, who was Scotch on his mother's side, and, therefore, somewhat canny--was most religiously kept, he living within his ample means--or Kate's, which was the same thing--discharging the duties of father, citizen, and friend, with the regularity of a clock--so many hours with his daughter, so many hours at his club, so many hours at his office; the intermediate minutes being given over to resting, dressing, breakfasting, dining, sleeping, and no doubt praying; the precise moment that marked the beginning and ending of each task having been fixed years in advance by this most exemplary, highly respectable, and utterly colorless old gentleman of sixty. That this dry shell of a man could be the father of our spontaneous lovely Kate was one of the things that none of the younger people around Kennedy Square could understand--but then few of them had known her beautiful mother with her proud step and flashing eyes. But it is not the punctilious, methodical Prim whom St. George wishes to see to-night; nor does he go through any of the formalities customary to the house. There is no waiting until old Ben, the family butler in snuff-colored coat and silver buttons, shuffles upstairs or into the library, or wherever the inmates were to be found, there to announce “Massa George Temple.” Nor did he send in his card, or wait until his knock was answered. He simply swung back the gate until the old chain and ball, shocked at his familiarity, rattled itself into a rage, strode past the neatly trimmed, fragrant box, pushed open the door--no front door was ever locked in the daytime in Kennedy Square, and few at night--and halting at the bottom step, called up the silent stairs in a voice that was a joyous greeting in itself: “Kate, you darling! come down as quick as your dear little feet will carry you! It's Uncle George, do you hear?--or shall I come up and bring you down in my arms, you bunch of roses? It won't be the first time.” The first time was when she was a year old. “Oh!--is that you, Uncle George? Yes,--just as soon as I do up my back hair.” The voice came from the top of the stairs--a lark's voice singing down from high up. “Father's out and--”