STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK
IN LOVE’S HANDS.
CONTENTS
[CHAPTER I. IN DEADLY PERIL.]
[CHAPTER II. SHADOWS.]
[CHAPTER III. THE LEGACY.]
[CHAPTER IV. THE GOVERNESSES.]
[CHAPTER V. AN UNPLEASANT ERRAND.]
[CHAPTER VI. SHATTERED HOPES.]
[CHAPTER VII. DESERTED.]
[CHAPTER VIII. A NEW HOME.]
[CHAPTER IX. ALONE IN THE WORLD.]
[CHAPTER X. MRS. WILSON.]
[CHAPTER XI. THE STRANGER FROM INDIA.]
[CHAPTER XII. FLORENCE’S PUPILS.]
[CHAPTER XIII. THE DISCOVERY.]
[CHAPTER XIV. TOO LATE!]
[CHAPTER XV. THE STORM.]
[CHAPTER XVI. A MAN OF MYSTERY.]
[CHAPTER XVII. THE NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH.]
[CHAPTER XVIII. SUSPENSE.]
[CHAPTER XIX. STILL A MYSTERY.]
[CHAPTER XX. NOT QUITE HAPPY.]
[CHAPTER XXI. A WHISPERED WORD.]
[CHAPTER XXII. A TARDY EXPLANATION.]
[CHAPTER XXIII. CONCLUSION.]
CHAPTER I.
IN DEADLY PERIL.
Who that knows Northumberland has not roamed delightedly beside the lovely Coquet, that tricksome little river which sometimes murmurs softly along its rocky bed, and anon—swollen and turbid—fiercely dashes against its steep banks, rushing on toward the ocean with a force and rapidity that carries everything before it.
Those who have visited this capricious stream will remember Heriton Priory, one of the fairest and finest estates through which it wanders. Surrounded on three sides by hills which protect it from the keen winds, then sloping gently toward the river, the grounds are worthy the house, which is a fine specimen of the Tudor style of architecture. The ruins of the first priory—formerly the residence of a community of monks—still exist; and, owing to the care of their owners, are almost in as good condition as when the demesne was bestowed upon a certain Ralph de Heriton by Henry VIII.
The priory had been in the same family ever since. Succeeding generations had added to and improved the estate, until at the commencement of the present reign it fell into the hands of Mr. Richard Heriton, the last of the male branch. He, too, pulled down, and rebuilt, and altered, and this at a rate which made some of his more prudent neighbors shrug their shoulders as they counted the cost.
That the alterations were made with taste no one could deny, and at the time our story opens—that sweet, fragrant season when spring insensibly glides into summer—the priory gardens were in one flush of glowing beauty. It was literally a fairy scene, concealed from prying eyes by the towering heights which guarded and sheltered its loveliness.