Old Aaron Rockharrt strode into the drawing room where his wife and granddaughter sat, and astonished them by saying: 

“Pack up your things this afternoon.  We leave for Rockland by the first train to-morrow morning.”

He deigned no explanation, but turned and stalked off.

The three reached North End at noon.  As their arrival was to be a surprise, no carriage had been ordered to meet them.  But the large, comfortable hack from the North End Hotel was engaged, and in it they rode on to Rockhold, where they pulled up two hours later, to the astonishment and consternation of the household, who, be it whispered, had almost as lief been confronted with his satanic majesty as to be surprised by their despotic master.

Leaving his womenkind to get domestic affairs into order, the Iron King went to the little den at the end of the hall, which he called his study, and there made out a warrant for the arrest of Hyacinth Woods on the charge of vagrancy.  This he directed to William Hook, county constable, and sent it off to the county seat by one of his servants.  He waited all the rest of the day for the return of the warrant with the prisoner, but in vain.

The next day, in the afternoon, Constable Hook made his appearance before the magistrate without the prisoner, and reported: 

“She cannot be found.  I went first to her hut on the mountain, but it was in ruins.  It had fallen in.  I searched for the woman everywhere, and only found out that she had not been seen by anybody since the day of the grand wedding here,” replied the officer.

“The old crone is lost on the same day that the young governor was missing, eh?  Very significant.  I want you to take a paper for me to the Peakeville Gazette.  I will advertise a thousand dollars reward for the discovery of that woman.  She knows the fate of Rothsay.”

CHAPTER III.

A mountain IDYL—­the girl and the boy.

On a fine day near the end of October, several years before the opening of this story, the express train from the southwest was speeding on toward North End.  In one of the middle cars, which was not crowded, nor, indeed, quite full, sat a girl and a boy—­both dressed in deep mourning, and both in charge of a tall, stout gentleman, also in deep mourning.  These children were Corona, aged seven, and Sylvanus, aged four, orphans and co-heirs of John Haught, a millionaire merchant of San Francisco, and of his wife, Felicia, only daughter of Aaron and Deborah Rockharrt, of Rockhold.  They had lost their parents during the prevalence of an epidemic fever, and had been left to the guardianship of Aaron Rockharrt.  They were now coming, in charge of their Uncle Fabian—­who had been sent to fetch them—­to their grandparents’ house, which was to be their home during their minority.