Sir Godfrey Etherton in his own mind always believed that his brother had eloped with a young lady from some city in Italy, but whether he married her or not he could not discover; neither, strange to say, could he find out the name of the young lady. There was a mystery enveloping the whole transaction that baffled him. Of all his family, his wife was his only confidant; to her he confided all his thoughts and conjectures, though she was the very last person, to judge by appearance and manner, that he would seek, though she was his wife, to repose confidence in for she was the very reverse of himself in everything; but the secret was, she was really attached to him, and he to her: at least he liked her as much as his selfish, cold nature would permit him to like anything. Sir Godfrey was no schemer or plotter; he had nothing of the villain about him; had his brother married and left a child, a boy or a girl, he would have made no attempt to deprive either of their just rights. The morning he received his son’s letter he was sitting at breakfast with his lady and four of their daughters, two of them not out of their teens; the other two were of the respective ages of seventeen and nine. On opening the letter to satisfy Lady Etherton’s eager inquiries concerning her son, Sir Godfrey’s eye caught the name of Arden. “God bless my soul!” he exclaimed, turning somewhat pale, and, indeed, no little agitated; “how extraordinary!” “Nothing has occurred to our Henry, I trust?” said Lady Etherton, anxiously. “I always said it was a sad thing to expose our boy with his expectations.” “His expectations!” repeated Sir Godfrey, sarcastically; and then added, “No, Jane; nothing has happened to him. I will read you his letter presently.” The daughters, though no doubt as curious as their mother, took the hint, and left the room. “You look disturbed, Godfrey,” said Lady Etherton. “What can Howard have written to vex you?” “Well, the intelligence is not perhaps as bad as I thought,” said Sir Godfrey, drawing his breath as if relieved, and laying down the letter, having read it carefully through. “Do you know, Jane, that my suspicions that my brother Granby had married, are turning out correct?” “Heavens! What do you mean?” exclaimed Lady Etherton, in her turn looking agitated. “Has he left any children?” “He did leave a boy and a girl.” “Merciful goodness,” interrupted the Baronet’s wife; “this is dreadful! We shall——” “Nay,” interrupted Sir Godfrey; “you are frightening yourself without cause. I was startled myself; but the son, it seems, was beheaded.” “Thank God!—that is—hem—really, Godfrey, you, you startled me—I do not mean to thank God that the unfortunate boy has lost his head, which is very singular; but I mean it would be very terrible for us to lose the title and estate, and with such a family of daughters.”