This story of the Irish peerage is written, as nearly as possible,
in the very words in which it was related by its "heroine," the late
Countess D----, and is therefore told in the first person.

My mother died when I was an infant, and of her I have no
recollection, even the faintest. By her death my education was left
solely to the direction of my surviving parent. He entered upon his
task with a stern appreciation of the responsibility thus cast
upon him. My religious instruction was prosecuted with an almost
exaggerated anxiety; and I had, of course, the best masters to perfect
me in all those accomplishments which my station and wealth might seem
to require. My father was what is called an oddity, and his treatment
of me, though uniformly kind, was governed less by affection and
tenderness, than by a high and unbending sense of duty. Indeed I
seldom saw or spoke to him except at meal-times, and then, though
gentle, he was usually reserved and gloomy. His leisure hours, which
were many, were passed either in his study or in solitary walks;
in short, he seemed to take no further interest in my happiness or
improvement, than a conscientious regard to the discharge of his own
duty would seem to impose.

Shortly before my birth an event occurred which had contributed much
to induce and to confirm my father's unsocial habits; it was the fact
that a suspicion of _murder_ had fallen upon his younger brother, though
not sufficiently definite to lead to any public proceedings, yet
strong enough to ruin him in public opinion. This disgraceful and
dreadful doubt cast upon the family name, my father felt deeply and
bitterly, and not the less so that he himself was thoroughly convinced