“Three years,” interrupted his father.  “She is twenty-five, you twenty-two, and then as to her being a widow and a mother, the immensity of her wealth atones for that.  She is much sought after, but I think she prefers you.  She will make you a good wife, and I am resolved to see the union consummated ere I die.”

“Never sir, never,” answered Harry, in a more decided manner than he had before assumed toward his father.  “It is utterly impossible.”

Mr. Graham was too much exhausted to urge the matter at that time, but he continued at intervals to harass Harry, until the very sight of Lucy Bellmont became hateful to him.  It was not so, however, with the son, the Durward of our story.  He was a fine little fellow, whom every one loved, and for hours would Harry amuse himself with him, while his thoughts were with his own wife and child, the latter of whom was to be so strangely connected with the fortunes of the boy at his side.  For weeks his father lingered, each day seeming an age to Harry, who, though he did not wish to hasten his father’s death, still longed to be away.  Twice had he written without obtaining an answer, and he was about making up his mind to start, at all events, when his father suddenly died, leaving him the sole heir of all his princely fortune, and with his latest breath enjoining it upon him to marry Lucy Bellmont, who, after the funeral was over, adverted to it, saying, in her softest tones, “I hope you don’t feel obliged to fulfill your father’s request.”

“Of course not,” was Harry’s short answer, as he went on with his preparations for his journey, anticipating the happiness he should experience in making Helena the mistress of his luxurious home.

But alas for human hopes.  The very morning on which he was intending to start, he was seized with a fever, which kept him confined to his bed until the spring was far advanced.  Sooner than he was able he started for Springfield in quest of Helena, learning from the woman whom he had left in charge, that she was dead, and her baby too!  The shock was too much for him in his weak state, and for two weeks he was again confined to a sick-bed, sincerely mourning the untimely end of one whom he had truly loved, and whose death his own foolish conduct had hastened.

Soon after their marriage her portrait had been taken by the best artist in the town, and this he determined to procure as a memento of the few happy days he had spent with Helena.  But the cottage where he left her was now occupied by strangers, and after many inquiries, he learned that the portrait, together with some of the furniture, had been sold to pay the rent, which became due soon after his departure.  His next thought was to visit her parents, but from this his natural timidity shrank.  They would reproach him, he thought, with the death of their daughter, whom he had so deeply wronged, and not possessing sufficient courage to meet them face to face, he again started for home, bearing a sad heart, which scarcely again felt a thrill of joy until the morning when he first met with ’Lena, whose exact resemblance to her mother so startled him as to arouse the jealousy of his wife.