merry, mischievous girl, with no great pretensions to beauty, but with
the fresh charms, the dancing grey eyes, and brown hair (which, in its
luxuriant abundance, was her chief glory) of a daughter of Ireland.

Among those whom her bright nature and winsome ways captivated was one
Henry Gerald Fitzgerald, the natural son of her mother's brother, and
thus her cousin by blood, if not by law. Fitzgerald, who was many years
Mary's senior--indeed, at the time this story really opens, he was a
married man--had been brought up by Lady Kingsborough as one of her
children. He had been the companion of Mary's elder brothers, and Mary's
"big playfellow" when she was still nursing her dolls. He was, moreover,
a young man of remarkable physical gifts--tall, of splendid figure, and
strikingly handsome. It is thus small wonder that the child made a hero
of him long before she had emerged from short frocks. When she grew into
young womanhood Fitzgerald's attentions to her grew still more marked.
He was her constant companion on walks and rides, her partner at
dances--in fact, her shadow everywhere, until even her unsuspecting
parents began to grow alarmed.

One summer day in 1797, when the Kingsborough family were spending a few
weeks by the Thames-side, near Fitzgerald's home at Bishopsgate, the
blow fell. Miss King disappeared, leaving behind her a note to the
effect that she intended to drown herself in the Thames. Her family and
friends were distracted. The river was dragged, but no trace of the
missing girl was found. On the river bank, however, were discovered her
bonnet and shawl, mute witnesses to the fate that seemed to have
overtaken her. Her father alone refused to believe that his daughter had
ended her life tragically. He persisted in his search for her, and was
soon rewarded by a clue which threw a different and more ominous light
on her fate.