IT was a magnificent old place, and had borne the
name of Leighton Homestead, or Leighton Place,
ever since the quarrel between the two brothers,
Arthur and Robert, as to which should have the property in
New York, and which should have the old family house on
the Hudson, thirty miles or so below Albany, and in plain
sight of the Catskills. To Arthur, the elder, the place had
come at last, while Robert took the buildings on Broadway,
and made a fortune from them, and dying without family,
left it all to his brother's son and namesake, who, after his
father's death, was the richest boy for many miles around.

As Roy grew to manhood he caused the old place to be
modernized and beautified, until at last there were few
country seats on the river which could compete with it in
the luxuriousness of its internal adorning, or the beauty of
the grounds around it. Broad terraces were there, with
mounds and beds of bright flowers showing among the soft

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green turf; gravel walks which wound in and out among
clumps of evergreen and ran past cosey arbors and summer-houses,
over some of which the graceful Wisteria was trailing,
while others were gorgeous with the flowers of the
wonderful Trumpet-creeper. Here and there the ripple of
a fountain was heard, while the white marble of urns and
statuary showed well amid the dense foliage of shrubbery
and trees. That Roy had lived to be twenty-eight and never
married, or shown a disposition to do so, was a marvel to
all, and latterly some of the old dowagers of the neighborhood
who had young ladies to dispose of had seriously taken
the matter in hand, to see if something could not be done
with the grave, impassive man. He was polite and agreeable
to all the girls, and treated them with that thoughtful
deference so pleasing to women, and so rarely found in any
man who has not the kindest and the best of hearts. But
he never passed a certain bound in his attentions, and the
young ladies from New York who spent their summers in
the vicinity of Leighton Place went back to town discouraged,
and hopeless so far as Roy was concerned.

“It was really a shame, and he getting older every year,”
Mrs. Freeman Burton of Oakwood said, as on a bright
October morning in the autumn succeeding the May day
when we first met with Roy, she drove her ponies down the
smooth road by the river and turned into the park at
Leighton. “Yes; it really is a shame that there is not a
young and handsome mistress to grace all this, and Georgie
would be just the one if Roy could only see it,” the lady
continued to herself, as she drove to the side door which
was ajar, though there was no sign of life around the house
except the watch-dog Rover, who lay basking in the sunlight
with a beautiful Maltese kitten sleeping on his paws.

Mrs. Freeman Burton, whose husband was a Wall-street
Bull, lived on Madison Square in the winter, and in the

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summer queened it among the lesser lights in the neighborhood
of Leighton Homestead. As thought Mrs. Freeman
Burton of Oakwood, so thought Mrs. Anna Churchill of
Leighton, and as Mrs. Burton knew that Mrs. Churchill was
in all respects her equal, it came about naturally that the
two ladies were on the most intimate terms,—so intimate
indeed, that Mrs. Burton, seeing no one and hearing no one,
passed into the house dragging her rich India shawl after
her and knocking at the door of her friend's private sitting-room.
But Mrs. Churchill was up in Roy's room in a state
of great mental distress and agitation, which Roy was trying
to soothe as well as his own condition would admit. He
had been thrown from his horse only the day before and
broken his leg, and he lay in a state of great helplessness
and pain when, about half an hour before Mrs. Burton's call,
the morning letters were brought in and he asked his mother
to read them.

There were several on business, which were soon dispatched,
and then Mrs. Churchill read one to herself from
Maude Somerton, a relative of Mr. Freeman Burton, who
had spent the last summer at Oakwood, and flirted desperately
with Charlie Churchill all through his vacation. Roy
liked Maude and hoped that in time she might become his
sister. Once he said something to Charlie on the subject,
hinting that if he chose to marry Maude Somerton, and
tried to do well, money should not be wanting when it was
needed to set him up in business. There had been an awkward
silence on Charlie's part for a few moments, while he
turned very red, and seemed far more embarrassed than the
occasion would warrant. Then he had burst out with:

“Don't you mind about Maude Somerton. She will flirt
with anybody who wears a coat; but, old Roy, maybe I
shall want that money for somebody else; or at all events

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want you to stand by me, and if I do, you will; won't you,
Roy?”

And Roy, without a suspicion of his brother's meaning,
said he would, and the next day Charlie returned to Canandaigua,
while Maude went back to her scholars about ten
miles from Leighton; for she was poor, and earned her own
livelihood. But for her poverty she made amends in the
quality of her blood, which was the very best New England
could produce; and as she was fair, and sweet, and pure as
the white pond-lilies of her native State, Mrs. Freeman Burton
gave her a home at Oakwood, and gave her Georgie's
cast-off clothing, and would very much have liked to give her
Charlie Churchill, after she heard that Roy intended to do
something for his brother whenever he was married.

Maude's letter was a very warm, gushing epistle, full of
kind remembrances of Roy, “the best man in the world,”
and inquiries after Charlie, “the nicest kind of a summer
beau,” and professions of friendship for Mrs. Churchill,
“the dear sweet lady, whose kindnesses could never be
forgotten.”

“Maude writes a very good letter,” Mrs. Churchill said,
folding it up and laying it on the table, and as she did so,
discovering another which had fallen from her lap to the
floor.

It was from Charlie and directed to Roy, but Mrs. Churchill
opened it, turning first scarlet and then pale, and then
gasping for breath as she read the dreadful news. Charlie
was going to be married; aye, was married that moment,
for he had named the morning of the 7th of October as the
time when Edna Browning would be his wife! At that name
Mrs. Churchill gave a little shriek, and tossed the letter to
Roy, who managed to control himself, while he read that
Charlie was going to marry Edna Browning, “the nicest
girl in the whole world and the prettiest, as Roy would think

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if he could see her.” They had been engaged a long time;
were engaged, in fact, when Roy and his mother were in
Canandaigua, and he would have told them then, perhaps,
if his mother had not asked who “that brazen-faced thing”
was, or something like it, when they passed the seminary
girls in driving.

“Mother means well enough, I suppose,” Charlie wrote,
“but she is too confounded proud, and if I had told her
about Edna, she would have raised the greatest kind of a
row, for Edna is poor as a church-mouse,—hasn't a penny in
the world, and nobody but an old maid aunt who lives in
Richmond, and treats her like a dog. Her father was an
Episcopal clergyman and her mother was a music teacher,
and that's all I know of her family, or care. I love her, and
that's enough. I s'pose I may as well make a clean breast
of it, and tell you I've had a fuss with one of the teachers;
and I wouldn't wonder if they expelled me, and so I've
concluded to take time by the forelock, and have quit on
my own hook, and have persuaded Edna to cast in her lot
with mine, a little sooner than she had agreed to do. They
wrote to you about the fuss, but I paid the man who carries
the letters to the office five dollars for the one directed to
you, as I'd rather tell you myself, and it gives me time, too,
for this other matter in hand. Fortune favors the brave.
Edna went yesterday to Buffalo with her; and I am going
up to-morrow, and Wednesday morning, the 7th, we shall
be married, and take the early train for Chicago, where Edna
has some connection living.

“And now, Roy, I want some money,—there's a good
fellow. You remember you spoke of my marrying Maude
Somerton, and said you'd give me money and stand by me,
too. Do it now, Roy, and when mother goes into hysterics
and calls Edna that creature, and talks as if she had

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persuaded me, whereas it was I who persuaded her, say a word
for me, won't you? You will like Edna,—and, Roy, I want
you to ask us to come home, for a spell, anyway. The
fact is, I've romanced a little, and Edna thinks I am heir, or
at least joint heir with you, of Leighton Homestead. She
don't know I haven't a cent in the world but what comes
from you, and I don't want her to. Set me up in business,
Roy, and I'll work like a hero. I will, upon my word,—and
please send me five hundred at once to the care of John
Dana, Chicago. I shall be married and gone before this
reaches you, so there's no use for mother to tear her eyes
out. Tell her not to. I'm sorry to vex her, for she's been
a good mother, and after Edna I love her and you best of
all the world. Send the money, do.

This was the letter which created so much consternation
at Leighton Homestead, and made Mrs. Churchill faint with
anger, while Roy's pale face flushed crimson and the great
drops of sweat stood on his forehead. That Charlie should
be disgraced in school was bad enough, but that to the disgrace
he should add the rash, imprudent act of marrying,
was far worse,—even if the girl he married had been in all
respects his equal. Of that last, Roy did not think as much
as his mother. He knew Charlie better than she did, and
felt that almost any respectable girl was good enough for
him; but it did strike him a little unpleasantly that the Edna
Browning, whose caricature of himself was still preserved,
should become his sister-in-law. He knew it was she,—the
girl in the cars, and his mother knew it too. She had never
forgotten the girl, nor could she shake off the impression
that Charlie knew more of her than she would like to believe.
For this reason she had favored his flirting with
Maude Somerton, who, though poor, was highly connected,
which was more than could be said for Edna.

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During the summer, there had been at Oakwood a Miss
Rolliston, a friend of Maude Somerton, and a recent graduate
of Canandaigua Seminary. And without seeming to
be particularly interested, Mrs. Churchill had learned something
of Edna Browning, “whom she once met somewhere”
she said. Did Miss Rolliston know her?”

“Oh, yes, a bright little thing, whom all the girls liked,
though she was only a charity scholar, that is, she was to
teach for a time in the Seminary to pay for her education.”

“Indeed; has she no friends?” Mrs. Churchill asked,
and Miss Rolliston replied: “None but an aunt, a Miss
Jerusha Pepper, who, if rumor is correct, led her niece a
sorry life.”

It was about this time that Charlie commenced flirting so
desperately with Maude Somerton, and so Mrs. Churchill
for a time forget Edna Browning, and what Miss Rolliston
had said of her. But it came back to her now, and she repeated
it to Roy, who did not seem as much impressed with
Miss Pepper and the charity scholar part as his mother
would like to have had him. Perhaps he was thinking of
Charlie's words, “You'll stand by me, won't you, old Roy,”
and rightly guessing now that they had reference to Edna
Browning. And perhaps, too, the shadow of the fearful
tragedy so soon to follow was around him, pleading for his
young brother whose face he would never see again.

“What shall we do? What can we do?” his mother
asked, and he replied:

“We must make the best of it, and send him the money.”

“But, Roy, the disgrace; think of it,—an elopement; a
charity scholar, a niece of Miss Jerusha Pepper, whoever she
may be. I'll never receive her, and I shall write and tell
her so.”

“No, mother, you'll do nothing of the kind,” Roy said;
“Charlie is still your boy, and Edna is his wife. She is not

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to blame for being poor or for having an aunt with that horrible
name. Write and tell them to come home. The
house is large enough. Maybe you will like this Edna
Browning.”

Before Mrs. Churchill could reply, Mrs. Burton's card was
brought to her, and to that lady as her confidential friend
did the aggrieved mother unbosom herself, telling all she
knew of Edna, and asking what she should do. Mrs. Burton
sat a moment thinking, as if the subject demanded the most
profound and careful attention, and then said:

“I hardly know how to advise; different people feel so
differently. If it were my son I should not invite him home,
at present. Let him suffer awhile for his misdeed. He
ought to be punished.”

“Yes, and he will be punished, when he comes to his
senses and sees what a mésalliance he has made, though of
course she enticed him,” Mrs. Churchill said, her mother's
heart pleading for her boy; whereas Mrs. Burton, who had
never been a mother, and who felt a little piqued that after
knowing Maude Somerton, Charlie could have chosen so
unwisely, was very severe in her condemnation of both parties,
and spoke her mind freely.

“Probably this Browning girl did entice him, but he
should not have yielded, and he must expect to pay the
penalty. I, for one, cannot promise to receive her on terms
of equality; and Georgie; I am sure, will not, she is so fastidious
and particular. Maybe she will see them. Did I
tell you she had gone West?—started yesterday morning on
the early train? She expected to be in Buffalo last night,
and take this morning's train for Chicago, where she is going
to see a child, a relative of her step-mother, who died not
long since. I am sorry she happens to be gone just now,
when Roy is so helpless. She could read to him, and
amuse him so much.”

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It was evident that Mrs. Burton was thinking far more of
Georgie than of her friend's trouble; but the few words she
had spoken on the subject had settled the matter and
changed the whole current of Edna Browning's life, and
when, at last, she took her leave, and went out to her carriage,
Mrs. Churchill had resolved to do her duty, and set her
son's sins before him in their proper light.

But she did not tell Roy so. She would rather he should
not know all she had been saying to Mrs. Burton.

So to his suggestion that she should write to Charlie that
day, she answered that she would, but added:

“I can't write a lie, and tell him he will be welcome here
at once. I must wait awhile before doing that.”

To this Roy did not object. A little discipline would do
Charlie good, he believed; and so he signed a check for five
hundred dollars, and then tried to sleep, while his mother
wrote to Charlie. It was a severe letter, aimed more at
Edna than her boy, and told of her astonishment and indignation
that her son should have been led into so imprudent
an act. Then she descanted upon runaway matches, and
unequal matches; and said he must expect it would be a long
time before she could forgive him, or receive “Miss Browning”
as her daughter. Then she quoted Mrs. Burton, and
Georgie, and Roy, whose feelings were so outraged, and advised
Charlie to tell Miss Browning at once that every dollar
he had came from his brother; “for,” she added in conclusion,

“I cannot help feeling that if she had known this fact,
your unfortunate entanglement would have been prevented.

She did not show what she had written to Roy, but she
inclosed the check, and directed the letter to “Charles

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Augustus Churchill. Care of John Dana, Chicago, Ill.” With
no apparent reason, Mrs. Churchill lingered long over that
letter, studying the name “Charles Augustus,” and repeating
it softly to herself, as we repeat the names of the dead. And
when, at last, she gave it to Russell to post, she did it unwillingly,
half wishing, when it was gone past recall, that she had
not written quite so harshly to her boy, whose face haunted
her that day wherever she went, and whose voice she seemed
to hear everywhere calling to her.

With the waning of the day, the brightness of the early
morning disappeared, and the night closed in dark and
dreary, with a driving rain and a howling wind, which
swept past Mrs. Churchill's windows, and seemed screaming
Charlie's name in her ears as she tried in vain to sleep. At
last, rising from her bed and throwing on her dressing-gown,
she walked to the window and looked out into the night,
wondering at the strange feeling of fear as of some impending
evil stealing over her. The rain was over, and the breaking
clouds were scudding before the wind, which still blew in
fitful gusts, while the moon showed itself occasionally through
an angry sky, and cast a kind of weird light upon the grounds
below, the flower-beds, and statuary, which reminded Mrs.
Churchill of gravestones, and made her turn away at last with
a shudder. Then her thoughts went again after Charlie, and
something drew her to her knees as she prayed for him; but
said no word for Edna, the young girl-wife, whose sun of happiness
was setting in a night of sorrow, darker and more terrible
than anything of which she had ever dreamed.