It was when the little heir of Leigh was about a year old that the blow fell on his beautiful mother. She was seated one morning in her luxurious dressing-room, a scene of splendid confusion and brilliant coloring that would have enchanted an artist, herself more lovely than ever, for the promise of her girlhood had developed into magnificent womanhood. Jewels of great value lay on the toilet-table, costly dresses were lying about. The nurse had just been in with baby, and nothing would please baby but playing with his mamma's beautiful golden-brown hair. Of course his wish must be gratified. The diamond arrow that fastened the heavy coils was withdrawn, and the glorious wealth of hair, in all its shining abundance, fell in picturesque disorder. Then Lord Atherton entered to ask his wife some question about the day's proceedings, and he told her she looked so lovely he would not let the beautiful hair be touched. My lord withdrew, leaving his wife's face flushed with pleasure at his praises. Then came the maid, and she brought in her hands some letters that had just arrived. Lady Atherton laid them down carelessly; there was nothing, she thought, that could possibly interest her. Presently she took up the letters, and then all her indifference vanished, the love light died from her eyes, the smile from her lips. She knew the handwriting. One of those notes was from Allan Lyster. She hastily opened it, and, as she read, all the color faded from her sweet face. The folly and sin of her ignorant girlhood were finding her out. "I have but just returned from abroad," he wrote, "where I have been for more than two years, and I am completely overwhelmed by the intelligence that awaited me. You are married, Marion! You, who promised so faithfully to be my wife. You, whose letters to me contain that promise given over and over again. It is too late to ask what this treachery means. I have by me the letter you wrote, asking for your freedom, and I have the copy of mine absolutely refusing it. I told you then that I should hold you to your promise, and you have disregarded my words. "Marion, I must have compensation. It is useless talking to one like you of love. You throw aside the poor artist for the rich lord. You must pay me in your own coin, in what you value most--money. You have wronged me as your promised husband. I had some right to your fortune, as your duped and deserted lover. That right still remains. I claim some portion of what ought to have been all mine. "I am in immediate and urgent want of a thousand pounds. That is very little for one who ought, as your husband, to be at this moment the master of Hanton Hall and its rich domain. However, for a time, that will content me; when I want another I will come to you for it. I will not call at your house; you can send me a check, bank note, or what you will.