“The wretches!  But they can’t.  It is yours.”

“Not the western quarry; but they cannot get the stream without a piece of the land which belongs to Hodnet’s farm, for which they make astounding bids; but, any way, nothing can be done till I am of age, when the lease to Hodnet is out, except by Act of Parliament, which is hardly worth while, considering—-”

“That you are near twenty.  But surely you won’t consent?”

“Well, I don’t want to break all your hearts, Cherie’s especially, but why should all that space be nothing but a playground for us Underwoods, instead of making work for the million?”

“And a horrid, nasty million it would be,” retorted Anna.  “You born Yankee!  Don’t worry Aunt Cherry about profaning the Ewe, just to spoil good calico with nasty yellow dust.”

“I don’t want to worry her, but there never were such groovy people as you are!  I shall think it over, and make up my mind by the time I have the power.”

“I wish you had to wait till five-and-twenty, so as to get more time and sense.”

Gerald laughed, and sauntered away.  He was not Yankee, except that he had been born at Boston.  His father was English, his mother a Hungarian singer, who had divorced and deserted his father, the ne’er-do-weel second son of an old family.  When Gerald was five years old his father was killed, and he himself severely injured, in a raid of the Indians far west, and he was brought home by an old friend of the family.  His eldest uncle’s death made him heir to the estate, but his life was a very frail one till his thirteenth year, when he seemed to have outgrown the shock to spine and nerves.

Much had befallen the house of Underwood since the days when we took leave of them, still sorrowing under the loss of the main pillar of their house, but sending forth the new founders with good hope.

Geraldine had made her home at St. Matthew’s with her brother Clement and the little delicate orphan Gerald; but after three years she had yielded to the persevering constancy of Mr. Grinstead, a sculptor of considerable genius and repute, much older than herself, who was ready and willing to be a kind uncle to her little charge, and who introduced her to all at home or abroad that was refined, intellectual, or beautiful.

It was in the first summer after their marriage that he was charmed with the vivacity and musical talent of her young sister Angela, now upon the world again.  Angela had grown up as the pet and plaything of the Sisters of St. Faith’s at Dearport, which she regarded as another home, and when crushed by grief at her eldest brother’s death had hurried thither for solace.  Her family thought her safe there, not realizing how far life is from having its final crisis over at one-and-twenty.  New Sisters came in, old ones went to found fresh branches; stricter rules grew, up, and were enforced by a Superior out of sympathy with the girl, who had always rebelled