A hundred thousand pounds was a great fortune in those days and in our then modest republic, and this was the sum my parents brought with them from England—­a heritage sufficiently large to have enriched a numerous family in America, but which was chiefly centred on one alone, as will be shown.

My father, a proud, shy, fastidious man, had always been galled by the consciousness of my mother’s Israelitish descent, which she never attempted to conceal or deny, although, to please his sensitive requisitions, she dispensed with most of its open observances.  That she clung to it with unfailing tenacity to the last I cannot doubt, however, from memorials written in her own hand—­a very characteristic one—­and from the testimony of Mrs. Austin, her faithful friend and attendant—­the nurse, let me mention here, of my father’s little step-daughter during her mother’s lifetime, and her brief orphanage, as well as of his succeeding children.

Stanch in his love of church and country, we, his daughters, were all three christened, and “brought up,” as it is termed, in the Episcopal Church, and early taught devotion to its rites and ceremonies.  Yet, had we chosen for ourselves, perhaps our different temperaments might, even in this thing, have asserted themselves, and we might have embraced sects as diverse as our tastes were several.  I shall come to this third sister presently, of whom I make but passing mention here.  She was our flower, our pearl, our little ewe-lamb—­the loveliest and the last—­and I must not trust myself to linger with her memory now, or I shall lose the thread of my story, and tangle it with digression.

With my Oriental blood there came strange, passionate affection for all things sharing it, unknown to colder organizations—­an affection in whose very vitality were the seeds of suffering, in whose very strength was weakness, perhaps in whose very enjoyment, sorrow.  I have said my mother died of an insidious and inscrutable malady, which baffled friend and physician, when I was five years old.  She had been so long ill, so often alienated from her household for days together, that her death was a less terrible evil, less suddenly so, at least, than if each morning had found her at her board, each evening at the family hearth, and every hour, as would have been the case in health, occupied with her children.

My father’s grief was stern, quiet, solitary; ours, unreasonable and noisy, but soon over as to manifestation.  Yet I must have suffered more than I knew of, I think, for then occurred the first of those strange lethargies or seizures that afterward returned at very unequal intervals during my childhood and early youth, and which roused my father’s fears about my life and intellect itself, and gave me into the hands of a physician for many years thereof, vigorous, and healthy, and intelligent otherwise as I felt, and seemed, and was.

It was soon after the first settling down of tribulation in our household to that flat and almost unendurable calm or level that succeeds affliction, when a void is felt rather than expressed, and when all outward observances return to their olden habit, as a car backs slowly from a switch to its accustomed grooves, that a new face appeared among us, destined to influence, in no slight degree, the happiness of all who composed the family of Reginald Monfort.