CHAPTER I.
THE NEW HEIR.
In the summer time, from the door of a darkened room, a gray-haired, bent old man had just followed a great surgeon down the wide staircase of Woodlea Hall.
The surgeon looked around when he reached the last steps, and there was kindly pity on his grave face as he met the appealing eyes that were fixed on his.
“I am sorry to say there is no hope, Mr. Temple,” he said, in answer to the mute inquiry on his listener’s face.
Mr. Temple’s bowed gray head bent a little lower when he heard this verdict, and that was all.
“Is he your only son?” asked the surgeon, commiseratingly.