At the age of twenty-two, Miss Geraldine had married Burton Jerrold, a young man from one of the leading banks in Boston, and whose father, Peter Jerrold, had, for years, lived on a small farm a mile or more from the town of Allington.  So far as Geraldine knew, the Jerrold blood was as good as the Grey’s, even if old Peter did live a hermit life and wear a drab overcoat which must have dated back more years than she could remember.  No one had ever breathed a word of censure against the peculiar man, who was never known to smile, and who seldom spoke except he was spoken to, and who, with his long white hair falling around his thin face, looked like some old picture of a saint, when on Sunday he sat in his accustomed pew by the door, and like the publican, seemed almost to smite upon his breast as he confessed himself to be a miserable sinner.

Had Burton Jerrold remained at home and been content to till the barren soil of his father’s rocky farm, not his handsome face, or polished manners, or adoration of herself as the queen of queens, could have won a second thought from Geraldine, for she hated farmers, who smelled of the barn and wore cowhide boots, and would sooner have died than been a farmer’s wife.  But Burton had never tilled the soil, nor worn cowhide boots nor smelled of the barn, for when he was a mere boy, his mother died, and an old aunt, who lived in Boston, took him for her own, and gave him all the advantages of a city education until he was old enough to enter one of the principal banks as a clerk; then she died and left him all her fortune, except a thousand dollars which she gave to his sister Hannah, who still lived at home upon the farm, and was almost as silent and peculiar as the father himself.

“Marry one of the Grey girls if you can,” the aunt had said to her nephew upon her death bed.  “It is a good family, and blood is worth more than money; it goes further toward securing you a good position in Boston society.  The Jerrold blood is good, for aught I know, though not equal to that of the Greys.  Your father is greatly respected in Allington, where he is known, but he is a codger of the strictest type, and clings to everything old-fashioned and outre.  He has resisted all my efforts to have him change the house into something more modern, even when, for the sake of your mother, I offered to do it at my own expense.  Especially was I anxious to tear down that projection which he calls a lean-to, but when I suggested it to him, and said I would bring a carpenter at once, he flew into such a passion as fairly frightened me.  ’The lean-to should not be touched for a million of dollars; he preferred it as it was,’ he said; so I let him alone.  He is a strange man, and—­and—­Burton, I may be mistaken, but I have thought there was something he was hiding.  Else, why does he never smile, or talk, or look you straight in the face?  And why is he always brooding, with his head bent down and his hands clenched together?  Yes, there is