A handsome man, with fair, curling hair (what was left of it); proud blue eyes; well-formed features with a chronic flush upon them, for he liked his glass, and took it; a commanding, imperious manner, and a temper uncompromising as the grave.  Such was Captain Godfrey Monk; now in his forty-fifth year.  Upon his arrival at Leet Hall after landing, with his children and one or two dusky attendants in their train, he was received by his sister Emma, Mrs. Carradyne.  Major Carradyne had died fighting in India, and his wife, at the request of her brother Raymond, came then to live at Leet Hall.  Not of necessity, for Mrs. Carradyne was well off and could have made her home where she pleased, but Raymond had liked to have her.  Godfrey also expressed his pleasure that she should remain; she could act as mother to his children.

Godfrey’s children were three:  Katherine, aged seventeen; Hubert, aged ten; and Eliza, aged eight.  The girls had their father’s handsome features, but in their skin there ran a dusky tinge, hinting of other than pure Saxon blood; and they were every whit as haughtily self-willed as he was.  The boy, Hubert, was extremely pretty, his face fair, his complexion delicately beautiful, his auburn hair bright, his manner winning; but he liked to exercise his own will, and appeared to have generally done it.

A day or two, and Mrs. Carradyne sat down aghast.  “I never saw children so troublesome and self-willed in all my life, Godfrey,” she said to her brother.  “Have they ever been controlled at all?”

“Had their own way pretty much, I expect,” answered the Captain.  “I was not often at home, you know, and there’s nobody else they’d obey.”

“Well, Godfrey, if I am to remain here, you will have to help me manage them.”

“That’s as may be, Emma.  When I deem it necessary to speak, I speak; otherwise I don’t interfere.  And you must not get into the habit of appealing to me, recollect.”

Captain Monk’s conversation was sometimes interspersed with sundry light words, not at all orthodox, and not necessarily delivered in anger.  In those past days swearing was regarded as a gentleman’s accomplishment; a sailor, it was believed, could not at all get along without it.  Manners change.  The present age prides itself upon its politeness:  but what of its sincerity?

Mrs. Carradyne, mild and gentle, commenced her task of striving to tame her brother’s rebellious children.  She might as well have let it alone.  The girls laughed at her one minute and set her at defiance the next.  Hubert, who had good feeling, was more obedient; he did not openly defy her.  At times, when her task pressed heavily upon her spirits, Mrs. Carradyne felt tempted to run away from Leet Hall, as Godfrey had run from it in the days gone by.  Her own two children were frightened at their cousins, and she speedily sent both to school, lest they should catch their bad manners.  Henry was ten, the age of Hubert; Lucy was between five and six.