The life of Isobel Hannay had not, up to the time when she left England to join her uncle, been a very bright one. At the death of her father, her mother had been left with an income that enabled her to live, as she said, genteelly, at Brighton. She had three children: the eldest a girl of twelve; Isobel, who was eight; and a boy of five, who was sadly deformed, the result of a fall from the arms of a careless nurse when he was an infant. It was at that time that Major Hannay had come home on leave, having been left trustee and executor, and seen to all the money arrangements, and had established his brother’s widow at Brighton. The work had not been altogether pleasant, for Mrs. Hannay was a selfish and querulous woman, very difficult to satisfy even in little matters, and with a chronic suspicion that everyone with whom she came in contact was trying to get the best of her. Her eldest girl was likely, Captain Hannay thought, to take after her mother, whose pet she was, while Isobel took after her father. He had suggested that both should be sent to school, but Mrs. Hannay would not hear of parting from Helena, but was willing enough that Isobel should be sent to a boarding school at her uncle’s expense. As the years went by, Helena grew up, as Mrs. Hannay proudly said, the image of what she herself had been at her age--tall and fair, indolent and selfish, fond of dress and gayety, discontented because their means would not permit them to indulge in either to the fullest extent. There was nothing in common between her and her sister, who, when at home for the holidays, spent her time almost entirely with her brother, who received but slight attention from anyone else, his deformity being considered as a personal injury and affliction by his mother and elder sister. “You could not care less for him,” Isobel once said, in a fit of passion, “if he were a dog. I don’t think you notice him more, not one bit. He wanders about the house without anybody to give a thought to him. I call it cruel, downright cruel.” “You are a wicked girl, Isobel,” her mother said angrily, “a wicked, violent girl, and I don’t know what will become of you. It is abominable of you to talk so, even if you are wicked enough to get into a passion. What can we do for him that we don’t do? What is the use of talking to him when he never pays attention to what we say, and is always moping. I am sure we get everything that we think will please him, and he goes out for a walk with us every day; what could possibly be done more for him?” “A great deal more might be done for him,” Isobel burst out. “You might love him, and that would be everything to him. I don’t believe you and Helena love him, not one bit, not one tiny scrap.”