Honora’s biography should undoubtedly contain a sketch of Mrs. Randolph Leffingwell.  Beauty and dash and a knowledge of how to seat a table seem to have been the lady’s chief characteristics; the only daughter of a carefully dressed and carefully, preserved widower, likewise a linguist,—­whose super-refined tastes and the limited straits to which he, the remaining scion of an old Southern family, had been reduced by a gentlemanly contempt for money, led him ’to choose Paris rather than New York as a place of residence.  One of the occasional and carefully planned trips to the Riviera proved fatal to the beautiful but reckless Myrtle Allison.  She, who might have chosen counts or dukes from the Tagus to the Danube, or even crossed the Channel; took the dashing but impecunious American consul, with a faith in his future that was sublime.  Without going over too carefully the upward path which led to the post of their country’s representative at the court of St. James, neither had the slightest doubt that Randolph Leffingwell would tread it.

It is needless to dwell upon the chagrin of Honora’s maternal grandfather, Howard Allison Esquire, over this turn of affairs, this unexpected bouleversement, as he spoke of it in private to his friends in his Parisian club.  For many years he had watched the personal attractions of his daughter grow, and a brougham and certain other delights not to be mentioned had gradually become, in his mind, synonymous with old age.  The brougham would have on its panels the Allison crest, and his distinguished (and titled) son-in-law would drop in occasionally at the little apartment on the Boulevard Haussmann.  Alas, for visions, for legitimate hopes shattered forever!  On the day that Randolph Leffingwell led Miss Allison down the aisle of the English church the vision of the brougham and the other delights faded.  Howard Allison went back to his club.

Three years later, while on an excursion with Sir Nicholas Baker and a merry party on the Italian aide, the horses behind which Mr. and Mrs. Leffingwell were driving with their host ran away, and in the flight managed to precipitate the vehicle, and themselves, down the side of one of the numerous deep valleys of the streams seeking the Mediterranean.  Thus, by a singular caprice of destiny Honors was deprived of both her parents at a period which—­some chose to believe—­was the height of their combined glories.  Randolph Leffingwell lived long enough to be taken back to Nice, and to consign his infant daughter and sundry other unsolved problems to his brother Tom.

Brother Tom—­or Uncle Tom, as we must call him with Honora—­cheerfully accepted the charge.  For his legacies in life had been chiefly blessings in disguise.  He was paying teller of the Prairie Bank, and the thermometer registered something above 90 deg.  Fahrenheit on the July morning when he stood behind his wicket reading a letter from Howard Allison, Esquire, relative to his niece.