the elder of two brothers, and had inherited his father's business,
while his brother had gone into the army. The banker had married the
daughter of a landowner in the neighborhood, and had lived happily and
prosperously until her death, seven years before this story begins.
She had borne him three children, the two boys, now fifteen and
fourteen years old respectively, and a girl, Rhoda, two years younger
than Peter. The loss of his wife afflicted him greatly, and he
received another shock five years later by the death of his brother,
Colonel Scudamore, to whom he was much attached. From the time of his
wife's death he had greatly relaxed in his attention to his business,
and after his brother's death he left the management almost entirely
in the hands of his cashier, in whom he had unlimited confidence.
This confidence was wholly misplaced. For years the cashier had
been carrying on speculation upon his own account with the monies
of the bank. Gradually and without exciting the least suspicion he
had realized the various securities held by the bank, and at last
gathering all the available cash he, one Saturday afternoon, locked up
the bank and fled.

On Monday it was found that he was missing; Mr. Scudamore went down
to the bank, and had the books taken into his parlor for examination.
Some hours afterwards a clerk went in and found his master lying back
in his chair insensible. A doctor on arriving pronounced it to be
apoplexy. He never rallied, and a few hours afterwards the news spread
through the country that Scudamore, the banker, was dead, and that the
bank had stopped payment.

People could believe the former item of news, but were incredulous as
to the latter. Scudamore's bank was looked upon in Lincolnshire as at
least as safe as the Bank of England itself. But the sad truth was