five years old was now
running about the Hall gardens and calling the General "father." The old
man positively adored this little lad, and believed him to be
perfection. He was fond of Enid and of his wife, but he doated on the
child. He seemed indeed to love him more than did the mother of the boy.
Florence Lepel was not perhaps of a very loving disposition, but it was
remarkable that she apparently almost disliked little Dick. She never
petted or fondled the child--sometimes she rebuked him very angrily. And
yet he was docile, sweet-tempered, and quick-witted, though not
particularly handsome; but Florence had never liked children, and she
made her own son no exception to the rule.

Eight years had changed Florence very little in outward appearance. She
was still pale, slender, graceful--languid in manner, slow in speech,
and given to the reading of French novels. But there were dark shades
beneath her velvety brown eyes, as if she suffered from ill-health. She
had taken to lying on a sofa a great deal; she did not visit much, and
she seldom allowed any festivity at the Hall. She remained in her
boudoir for the greater part of the day, with the rose-colored blinds
down, and the doors carefully closed and curtained to exclude any sound
of the outer world; and while she was up-stairs the General and his
niece Enid and the boy had the house to themselves, and enjoyed their
liberty extremely. In the afternoon Mrs. Vane would be found in her
drawing-room, ready for visitors; but she generally returned to her
boudoir for a rest before dinner, and steadily see her face against late
hours in the evening. Nobody knew what was the matter with her; some
people spoke vaguely of her "nerves," of the extreme delicacy and
sensitiveness of her organisation--some said that Beechfield did not
suit her, and others whispered that she had never been "quite right"
since her baby was born. At any rate, she was a semi-invalid; and she
did not seem to know what was the matter with her any more than did
other people. She sat in her luxurious lounging-chair, or lay on the
softest of sofas, day after day without complaint, always pale, silent,
graceful--an habitual smile, sweet and weary, upon her pinched lips, but
no smile in her eyes, where a fire sometimes glowed which seemed to be
burning her very life away.

One balmy September afternoon she had established herself rather earlier
than usual in the drawing-room. A bright little fire burned