It was at the beginning of Lynde's last term at college that his uncle
retired from business, bought a house in Madison Avenue, and turned it
into a sort of palace with frescoes and upholstery. There was a library
for my boy Ned, a smoking-room in cherry-wood, a billiard-room in black
walnut, a dining-room in oak and crimson--in brief, the beau-ideal of a
den for a couple of bachelors. By Jove! it was like a club-house--the
only model for a home of which poor old Lynde had any conception. Six
months before Ned was graduated, the establishment was in systematic
running order under the supervision of the pearl of housekeepers. Here
David Lynde proposed to spend the rest of his days with his nephew, who
might, for form's sake, adopt some genteel profession; if not, well and
good, the boy would have money.

Now just as Ned was carrying off the first prizes in Greek and
mathematics, and dreaming of the pleasant life he was to lead with his
amiable old benefactor, what does that amiable old benefactor go and do
but marry the housekeeper!

David Lynde knew very little of women: he had not spoken to above a
dozen in his whole life; did not like them, in fact; had a mild sort of
contempt for them, as persons devoid of business ability. It was in the
course of nature that the first woman who thought it worth her while
should twist him around her finger like a remnant of ribbon. When Ned
came out of college he found himself in the arms of an unlooked-for aunt
who naturally hated him at sight.

I have not the time or space, my dear uncle, to give you even a
catalogue of the miseries that followed on the heels of this deplorable
marriage; besides, you can imagine them. Old Lynde, loving both his wife
and his nephew, was by turns violent and feeble; the wife cool, cunning,