"Margaret and I were married quietly, and now comes some more news. You know you have often spoken of your uncle Arthur's picture over the mantel in the library, saying how sorry you were never to have known him? He was several years my junior, and had been at college in the East. He came home and met Margaret after she and I had confessed our love. He at once conceived a violent affection for her, and when he discovered he was too late to hope to win her, it went hard with him, indeed. He stayed till after the wedding, and then went West, following the lure of gold. For a few years we heard from him at intervals, then his letters ceased, and today we do not know whether he lives or not. We loved each other dearly, and it has always been a cross to me that I was the innocent cause of his exile. I have made efforts to find him, but they have all been futile.
"Brule Marston disappeared a few days after our wedding. It was told that he took a boat at Louisville and went south, as far as New Orleans. He was gone a short time only, and when he returned he brought with him a woman. She was a quadroon, or a Creole, and she was exceedingly handsome in a flashy, barbaric way. Marston had loaded her with costly silks and jewels of all kinds, and introduced her as his wife. No one believed this to be true, and doors were closed upon them everywhere. In the course of a year a child was born to them, a son, who from his cradle was christened Devil Marston, for such was the wicked heart of Brule, his father, who worshiped nothing but his own passions, and made an open mock of religion. Then came the war, and I went with the South. Fearing to leave my young wife unprotected, I took her to her old home in Virginia, and there she stayed safely until the bitter strife was over, and there you were born. When we returned home a fearful tale of horror awaited us. In a maniac fit of rage Brule Marston had killed the Creole woman whom he had brought up from New Orleans. No attempts had been made to bring him to justice for the crime. Partly because everything was so unhinged on account of the war and its effects, partly because no officer was brave enough to try to arrest him. From that time on he lived alone in the old home down yonder, leaving the rearing of his son to an old negro woman who was reputed to be coarse and profane. Harrowing stories came to us of the fiendish cruelties Brule Marston practiced upon his servants, and he thought nothing of knocking one down and stamping him with his feet.