When Mr. Lowington was thirty years old, his father died, leaving to each of his three children a quarter of a million; and he had resigned his position in the navy, in order to take care of his property, and to lead a more domestic life with his wife and daughter than the discipline of the service would permit.

He had taken up his residence in Brockway, the early home of his wife.  It was a large town on the sea shore, only a few miles from the metropolis of New England, thus combining all the advantages of a home in the city and in the country.  For several years he had been happy in his peaceful retirement.  But not wealth, nor even integrity and piety, can bar the door of the lofty mansion against the Destroyer of the race.  His wife died of an hereditary disease, which gave no indication of its presence till she had passed her thirtieth year.  Two years later, his daughter, just blooming into maturity, followed her mother down to the silent tomb, stricken in her freshness and beauty by the same insidious malady.

The husband and father was left desolate.  His purest and fondest hopes were blighted; but, while he was submissive to the will of the Father, who doeth all things well, he became gloomy and sad.  He was not seen to smile for a year after the death of his daughter, and it was three years before he had recovered even the outward semblance of his former cheerfulness.  He was rich, but alone in the world.  He continued to reside in the home which was endeared to him by the memories of his loved and lost ones.

When his wife’s sister died in poverty, leaving two children, he had taken them to his home, and had become a father to them.  Harry Martyn was a good boy, and Josephine Martyn was a good girl; but they were not his own children.  There was something wanting—­an aching void which they could not fill, though Mr. Lowington was to them all that could be asked or expected of a parent.

Mr. Lowington busied himself in various studies and experiments; but life had ceased to be what it was before the death of his wife and daughter.  He wanted more mental occupation; he felt the need of greater activity, and he was tempted to return to the navy, even after his absence of ten years from the service; but this step, for many reasons, was not practicable.  At the time when his garden was invaded by the vandal students from the Brockway Academy, he was still thinking what he could do to save himself from the inglorious life of ease he was leading, and, at the same time, serve his country and his race.

Shuffles had robbed his garden of some of his choicest fruit; had struck his nephew a severe blow on the head, and threatened to inflict still greater chastisement upon him in the future.  Mr. Lowington was justly indignant; and his own peace and the peace of the neighborhood demanded that the author of the mischief should be punished, especially as he was an old transgressor.  It was absolutely necessary that something should be done, and the retired naval officer was in the right frame of mind to do it.  Just then, when he was wrought up to the highest pitch of indignation, his anger vanished.  Shuffles at sixteen was the counterpart of himself at fifteen.