“Louis,” said George De Marke, “how long was all this after our father’s death; I have never had a thorough knowledge of that time. Everything connected with it was too painful for questions.” “I remember,” answered Louis, “she had driven you from the house before I was old enough to know that I had a brother. You were happier for it. Year by year, our home had become more uncomfortable and dreary. As age crept on our father, some cause of strife, which always existed, seemed to break out afresh between him and Madame. I never thoroughly understood it, George; there was something in the past never explained to us. Quick words and broken sentences, which I remember now, though scarcely noticed at the time, connect this mystery with your own mother.” George De Marke looked up with sudden interest. “It is strange,” he said, “but I never heard anything about my mother. Madame never mentioned her!” “Nor did my father; during his life I was kept so far apart from his confidence, that I never ventured to question him regarding his or her family. Indeed, it was years before I knew that Madame was not alike your mother and mine. It was discovered to me at last by some angry words with which she was taunting him, as if some disgrace had been attached to your birth. This made me angry at the time, but I accepted it as little more than a burst of fiery malice. Forgive me, dear boy, for saying so of my mother; but she was used to saying what came uppermost in her mind when he offended her, and I gave it no importance.” “I dare say it had no importance,” said George, “she must always have delighted in tormenting him.” “That is probably true, dear boy—but as I became a man, the fact that I knew absolutely nothing of my mother’s family forced itself upon me. If my father had been living, I would know all about her. Had I been here when he died, that one subject should not have been left in the dark.” “You would not have had the heart to question him, George. He was sadly changed before he died, and so nervous that a word would make him tremble. Sometimes the very sound of my mother’s voice would set him to shaking all over.” “My poor father! Did he suffer so much?” inquired George, shading his eyes to conceal the tears that sprung into them. “More than I can remember without pain,” answered Louis. “He took a terrible dislike to Madame toward the last, and I had great difficulty in protecting him from her temper and cupidity. You cannot know how difficult it was, in health, for his iron will to keep down her parsimony in our household; when he lay sick and helpless, I found it almost impossible to obtain necessary comforts for him.” “Poor man! so rich—so proud, and brought to that! He must indeed have been miserable.” “Yes, both in body and mind,” was the answer; “I am sure that something preyed on him at the last. But Madame never left him at this period, and though he seemed anxious to converse with me, her presence always prevented it.”