MILDRED. CHAPTER I. THE STORM, AND WHAT IT BROUGHT. The sultry September day was drawing to a close, and as the sun went down, a dark thunder-cloud came slowly up from the west, muttering in deep undertones, and emitting occasional gleams of lightning by way of heralding the coming storm, from which both man and beast intuitively sought shelter. Ere long the streets of Mayfield were deserted, save by the handsome carriage and span of spirited grays, which went dashing through the town toward the large house upon the hill, the residence of Judge Howell, who paid no heed to the storm, so absorbed was he in the letter which he held in his hand, and which had roused him to a state of fearful excitement. Through the gate, and up the long avenue, lined with giant trees of maple and beech, the horses flew, and just as the rain came down in torrents they stood panting before the door of Beechwood. “Bring me a light! Why isn’t there one already here?” roared the Judge, as he stalked into his library, and banged the door with a crash scarcely equalled by the noise of the tempest without. “Got up a little thunder-storm on his own account! Wonder what’s happened him now!” muttered Rachel, the colored housekeeper, as she placed a lamp upon the table, and then silently left the room. Scarcely was she gone when, seating himself in his armchair, the Judge began to read again the letter which had so much disturbed him. It was post-marked at a little out-of-the-way place among the backwoods of Maine, and it purported to have come from a young mother, who asked him to adopt a little girl, nearly two months old. “Her family is fully equal to your own,” the mother wrote; “and should you take my baby, you need never blush for her parentage. I have heard of you, Judge Howell. I know that you are rich, that you are comparatively alone, and there are reasons why I would rather my child should go to Beechwood than any other spot in the wide world. You need her, too,—need something to comfort your old age, for with all your money, you are far from being happy.” “The deuce I am!” muttered the Judge. “How did the trollop know that, or how did she know of _me_, any way? _I_ take a child to comfort my old age! Ridiculous! I’m not old,—I’m only fifty,—just in the prime of life; but I _hate_ young ones, and I won’t have one in my house! I’m tormented enough with Rachel’s dozen, and if that madame brings hers here, I’ll——” The remainder of the sentence was cut short by a peal of thunder, so long and loud that even the exasperated Judge was still until the roar had died away; then, resuming the subject of his remarks, he continued: