Some time rolled on, calling for no particular record. Mr. Hamlyn's West
Indian property, which was large and lucrative, had been giving him
trouble of late; at least, those who had the care of it gave it, and he
was obliged to go over occasionally to see after it in person. Between
times he stayed with his wife at Peacock's Range; or else she joined him
in London. Their town residence was in Bryanstone Square; a very pretty
house, but not a large one.

It had been an unfavourable autumn; cold and wet. Snow had fallen in
November, and the weather continued persistently dull and dreary. One
gloomy afternoon towards the close of the year, Mrs. Hamlyn, shivering
over her drawing-room fire, rang impatiently for more coal to be piled
upon it.

"Has Master Walter come in yet?" she asked of the footman.

"No, ma'am. I saw him just now playing in front there."

She went to the window. Yes, running about the paths of the Square
garden was the child, attended by his nurse. He was a sturdy little
fellow. His mother, wishing to make him hardy, sent him out in all
weathers, and the boy throve upon it. He was three years old now, but
looked older; and he was as clever and precocious as some children are
at five or six. Her heart thrilled with a strange joy only at the sight
of him: he was her chief happiness in life, her idol. Whether he would
succeed to Leet Hall she knew not; since the one time he mentioned it,
Captain Monk had said no more upon the subject, for or against it.

Why need she have longed for it so fervently? to the setting at naught
the expressed wishes of her deceased uncle and to the detriment of Harry