His wife died of an hereditary disease, which gave no indication of its
presence till she had passed her thirtieth year. Two years later, his
daughter, just blooming into maturity, followed her mother down to the
silent tomb, stricken in her freshness and beauty by the same insidious
malady.

The husband and father was left desolate. His purest and fondest hopes
were blighted; but, while he was submissive to the will of the Father,
who doeth all things well, he became gloomy and sad. He was not seen to
smile for a year after the death of his daughter, and it was three years
before he had recovered even the outward semblance of his former
cheerfulness. He was rich, but alone in the world. He continued to
reside in the home which was endeared to him by the memories of his
loved and lost ones.

When his wife's sister died in poverty, leaving two children, he had
taken them to his home, and had become a father to them. Harry Martyn
was a good boy, and Josephine Martyn was a good girl; but they were not
his own children. There was something wanting--an aching void which they
could not fill, though Mr. Lowington was to them all that could be asked
or expected of a parent.

Mr. Lowington busied himself in various studies and experiments; but
life had ceased to be what it was before the death of his wife and
daughter. He wanted more mental occupation; he felt the need of greater
activity, and he was tempted to return to the navy, even after his
absence of ten years from the service; but this step, for many reasons,
was not practicable. At the time when his garden was invaded by the
vandal students from the Brockway Academy, he was still thinking what he
could do to save himself from the inglorious life of ease he was