speech or movement, that I knew how great my love for him had been. His
eyes, as they met mine on that last day, had in them infinite tenderness
and pleading, and my heart melted as I bent and kissed his lips. He
struggled to speak, and the sweat broke from his forehead at the effort,
but what he would have said I can only guess, for he died that night,
without the iron bands which held him fast loosening for an instant. Yet
I love to fancy that his last words, could he have spoken them, would
have been words of love and forgiveness, for my father as well as for
myself, and such, I am sure, they would have been. With him there passed
away the only one at Riverview whom I had grown to love.

And now a word about the others among whom I passed the second period of
my boyhood. My father's younger brother, James, had married seven or
eight years before a lady whose estate adjoined Riverview,--Mrs.
Constance Randolph, a widow some years older than himself. She had one
child living, a daughter, Dorothy, who, at the time I came to Riverview,
was a girl of nine, and a year after her second marriage she bore a son,
who was named James, much against the wishes of his mother. She would
have called him Thomas, a name which had for five generations been that
of the head of the house. But this my grandfather would by no means
allow, and so the child was christened after his father. I think that
ever since the day she had entered the Stewart family, my aunt had
thought me a spectre across her path, for she was an ambitious woman and
wished the whole estate for her son,--in which I do not greatly blame
her. But she had brooded over her fear until it had become a phantom
which haunted her unceasingly, and she had come to deem me a kind of
monster, who stood between her boy and his inheritance. Her second
husband died three years after their marriage,--he was drowned one day in
January while crossing the river on the ice, which gave way under
him,--and after that she became the mistress of Riverview in earnest,