His father, Hubert Trevlyn, had come of a proud family.  There was no bluer blood in the land than that which ran in the veins of the Trevlyns.  Not very far back they had an earl for their ancestor, and, better than that, the whole long lineage had never been tarnished by a breath of dishonor.

Hubert was the sole child of his father, and in him were centred many bright and precious hopes.  His father was a kind parent, though a stern one, who would never brook a shade of disobedience in this boy upon whom his fondest hopes and aspirations were fixed.

When Hubert was about twenty-four he went into the country for his health, which was never very robust, and while there he met Helen Crayton.  It was a case of love at first sight, but none the less pure and steadfast account.  Helen was an orphan—­a poor seamstress, but beautiful and intelligent beyond any woman he had ever met.  They loved, and they would not be cheated out of their happiness by any worldly opposition.  Hubert wrote to his father, informing him of his love for Helen, and asking his consent to their union.  Such a letter as he received in return!  It bade him give up the girl at once and return home.  If he ever spoke to her again he was disowned forever!  He might consider himself houseless and homeless.

Hubert had some of the proud Trevlyn blood in his composition, and this letter roused it thoroughly.  A week afterward he was the husband of Helen Crayton.  He took his young wife to the city, and, having something of a talent for painting, he opened a studio, hoping to receive sufficient patronage from his friends to support his family in comfort.

But he had not rightfully calculated the extent of his father’s hatred.  He made himself the evil genius of his disobedient son; and, in consequence, nothing Hubert touched prospered.  Mr. Trevlyn destroyed the confidence of his friends in him; he circulated scandalous reports of his wife; he made the public to look with suspicious eyes upon the unfortunate pair, and took the honestly earned bread out of their very mouths.  From bad to worse it went on, until, broken in health and spirits, Hubert made an appeal to his father.  It was a cold, wet night, and he begged for a little food for his wife and child.  They were literally starving!  Begged of his own father, and was refused with curses.  Not only refused, but kicked like a dog from the door of his childhood’s home!  There was a fearful storm that night, and Hubert did not come back.  All night his young wife sat waiting for him, hushing the feeble cries of the weary infant upon her breast.  With the dawn, she muffled herself and child in a shawl, and went forth to seek him.  Half way from her wretched home to the palatial mansion of Mr. Trevlyn she found her husband, stone dead, and shrouded in the snow—­the tender, pitiful snow, that covered him and his wretchedness from sight.

After that, people who knew Mr. Trevlyn said that he grew more fretful and disagreeable.  His hair was bleached white as the snow, his hands shook, and his erect frame was bowed and bent like that of a very aged man.  His wife, Hubert’s mother, pined away to a mere shadow, and before the lapse of a year she was a hopeless idiot.