If Dora had ever heard of Crackers she knew very little about them, and cared less.  She was greatly excited, and her eyes flashed and glowed with that light which Mr. Mason and Peter had noticed years before, and from which the Colonel turned away as from something dangerous.

“My mother was a Cracker?  My father was a Mr. Harris—­a Cracker, too.  I am not your daughter, as I have been weak enough at times to believe, and—­yes, I will confess it—­I was weak enough to be proud that I was a Crompton; but that is over now; my father and mother were Crackers.  I am a Cracker, and Eudora Harris.  I am eighteen, and my own mistress—­amenable to the authority of no one.  I am glad for that, as it makes me free to do as I please.  Good evening.”

She bowed and left the room, leaving him stunned that she dared defy him, and half resolved to call her back and tell her the truth.  But he didn’t, and it was years before he saw her again.

The next morning she was missing.  She had gone with Candida—­where, he took no pains to inquire.  She sent him a New York paper, with a notice of her marriage, and the names of herself and husband in the list of passengers sailing on the Celtic.  He put the paper in the fire with the tongs, and after that a great silence fell upon the house, and the Colonel grew more reserved than ever, and more peculiar.  He forbade the servants to mention Dora’s name, or tell him where she was, if they knew.  They didn’t know, and many years went by, and to all intents and purposes she was dead to those who had known her as a bright, beautiful girl.  Jake, who wrote to inquire for her, was told that she had run away and married, and the Colonel neither knew nor cared where she was, and was not to be troubled with any more letters, which he should not answer.  Jake was silenced, and there was no link connecting the Colonel with the past, except his memory which lashed him like the stings of scorpions.  His hair turned white as snow; there was a stoop between his shoulders, and his fifty-five years might have been sixty-five, he aged so fast, as time went on, and his great house became so intolerable to him that he at last hailed with delight an event which, sad as it was in some respects, brought him something of life and an interest in it.

PART II

CHAPTER I

HOWARD CROMPTON TO JACK HARCOURT

“Crompton House, June —­, 18—.

“Dear Jack: 

“I have bearded the lion in his den and found him a harmless old cove, after all, with many of his fangs extracted.  You know, I am the son of his half-brother, who was many years his junior.  I fancy the two never agreed very well, and when I wrote, proposing that I should visit Crompton House, I was surprised at the cordial reply, bidding me pack up my traps and come at once.  I packed up and came, and, if I know myself, I shall stay.  I am the only near relative he has in the world.  He has a large estate to dispose of, was never married, and, of course, has no children, unless—­