His marriage had been a great, a terrible mistake, he told himself, as he sat in a deep, comfortable arm-chair before the great fire-place. Disdaining women of his own rank as silly, and those of a lower position in life as coarse and vulgar, nature had suddenly revenged herself upon him for his indifference to the other sex by inspiring in him a mad love for his sister’s beautiful gypsy _protégée_. In the height of this he had married her, and his passion had cooled almost as rapidly as it had grown hot. Instead of a docile and humble tool, he found a proud and self-willed girl, who seemed in no way impressed by his extraordinary condescension and kindness in making her Lady Cranstoun. Very speedily his love turned to a sombre dislike, and he set himself to work to crush all opposition out of her nature. On one point particularly he had insisted from the first. She must utterly and forever renounce her kindred, whose very existence he considered as an insult to him. His last remaining spark of affection for her was extinguished when he discovered that she had disobeyed his strenuous orders on this point, and had contrived to see and speak with her relatives. But his wish for an heir, and his fear lest the estates, which were strictly entailed, should pass to his brother, whom he heartily detested, forced him to tolerate his wife’s presence, and his anger, therefore, knew no bounds when, owing, as he believed to Clare’s indifference and neglect, his infant son’s life faded away. On that unlucky night when Hiram Carewe met his death, Sir Philip, who had been informed of the gypsies’ intention to visit his daughter, set his men on to seize the Carewes as poachers, and drive them out of the grounds. His men, over-zealous in executing their master’s orders, attacked the Carewes so savagely that, the wild gypsy blood of the latter being roused, one of the gamekeepers might well have paid for his obedience with his life but for Sir Philip’s shot. The Baronet had no intention of killing his wife’s father, although he was viciously glad of an opportunity to wound him. He hated Lady Cranstoun’s gypsy kindred most heartily, and wished them all out of the world; but it was a momentary matter of regret with him that his hand had fired the fatal shot which made Clare a orphan. After that point, affairs seemed taken out of his hands. The police interference, the inquest, and James Carewe’s trial, had all taken place without any impetus on his side; the one imperative necessity was that Lady Cranstoun should be, for some time at least, kept in ignorance of the fate of her father and brother. Even as he thus reasoned, the door of the dining-room was suddenly opened, and Clare Cranstoun, corpse-like in her pallor, her long black hair dishevelled about her shoulders, and her eyes gleaming with what looked like madness, advanced toward him, ghost-like in her loose white dressing-gown, and he knew in an instant that she had learned the truth.