se home, Haddon Hall in Derbyshire, occurred
the events which will furnish my theme.

Of the ancient lineage of the house of Vernon I need not speak. You
already know that the family is one of the oldest in England, and while it
is not of the highest nobility, it is quite gentle and noble enough to
please those who bear its honored name. My mother boasted nobler blood
than that of the Vernons. She was of the princely French house of Guise--a
niece and ward to the Great Duke, for whose sake I was named.

My father, being a younger brother, sought adventure in the land of
France, where his handsome person and engaging manner won the smiles of
Dame Fortune and my mother at one and the same cast. In due time I was
born, and upon the day following that great event my father died. On the
day of his burial my poor mother, unable to find in me either compensation
or consolation for the loss of her child's father, also died, of a broken
heart, it was said. But God was right, as usual, in taking my parents; for
I should have brought them no happiness, unless perchance they could have
moulded my life to a better form than it has had--a doubtful chance, since
our great virtues and our chief faults are born and die with us. My
faults, alas! have been many and great. In my youth I knew but one virtue:
to love my friend; and that was strong within me. How fortunate for us it
would be if we could begin our life in wisdom and end it in simplicity,
instead of the reverse which now obtains!

I remained with my granduncle, the Great Duke, and was brought up amid the
fighting, vice, and piety of his sumptuous court. I was trained to arms,
and at an early age became Esquire in Waiting to his Grace of Guise. Most
of my days between my fifteenth and twenty-fifth years were spent in the
wars. At the age of twenty-five I returned to the chateau, there to reside
as my uncle's representative, and to endure the ennui of peace. At the
chateau I found a fair, tall girl, fifteen years of age: Mary Stuart,
Queen of Scotland, soon afterward Queen of France and rightful heiress to
the English throne. The ennui of peace, did I say? Soon I had no fear of
its depressing effect, for Mary Stuart was one of those women near whose
fascinations peace does not thrive. When I found her at the chateau, my
martial ardor lost its warmth. Another sort of flame took up its home in
my heart, and no power could have turned me to the wars again.

Ah! what a gay, delight