A cold, bitter night, with the snow falling swiftly and silently, only to be caught up by the tempestuous bursts of wind, and swept into heavy drifts of dazzling whiteness. It was snowing hard all over the great city of New York, up-town as well as down. And in the open space in front of the fine old mansion in which Mr. Dexter lived, it had gathered in great heaps, on which bright streams of light shone from the curtained window of the comfortable library. But cold and dreary and desolate as it was without, within this richly furnished room was warmth, comfort and hospitality. The master of the house was lying with a shawl thrown over his slight figure, upon a couch, which had been drawn up in front of the great open wood-fire, and about him were gathered three or four of his best friends. Mr. Van Kuren was there, and his sister, whom the children always addressed as “Aunt Emma,” and who, on account of her delicate health, seldom ventured far away from home. It must have been business of importance that brought her from the great hotel, in which they were staying, to this mansion above the Harlem river, on such a cold and tempestuous night. Another guest, a portly, grey-haired, smooth-shaven man of judicial aspect, was the lawyer, who had been summoned by Mr. Dexter, in order to draw up a new will. Neither of the Van Kuren children were present, Harry having been sent away on a short trip with his tutor, while Laura had remained at the hotel in the care of her English governess. On a table, which had been drawn up closely to Mr. Dexter’s lounge, was an open letter, which each member of the company had carefully scrutinized in turn, and with many expressions of indignation and distrust. It was the letter which the money-lender had written and sent from his office at Eldridge Street, and which had been so cruelly planned to excite and distress the kindly old gentleman, that not only his lawyer, but his intimate friends, the Van Kurens, had been hastily summoned. The doctor fearing that the shock might prove serious, if not fatal, to the venerable patient. “I am inclined to think, on the whole,” said Mr. Van Kuren, after he had examined the money-lender’s letter for the twentieth time, “that there is not a word of truth in what he says, and that this has been written simply in the hope of bringing about a reconciliation with you. You know what my opinion of your nephew is and always has been. I told you when we talked the matter over in Paris that he was not a man to be trusted, and I was not at all surprised to learn that he had been running his little pawnshop down on the east side, and, I have no doubt, swindling every one of the unfortunates who are compelled by their necessities to deal with him. If I were you, I would throw this letter into the fire, and dismiss all thought of the matter from my mind. Don’t you agree with me, sir?” he added, turning to the kindly lawyer, who had been an attentive listener to his words.