A Tragedy of Love and Hate by Bertha M. Clay

Four years have passed since Sir Ronald took Lady Hermione home to Aldenmere. May blossoms are falling now, and the white acacia is all in bloom. England holds no fairer picture than Aldenmere in its spring dress. The golden laburnums droop their long tresses, the purple lilacs are all in flower, the tufted limes send forth sweetest odors, and birds sing joyously in the green trees.

A long French window that opens onto the lawn is thrown back, and the sound of laughing voices mingles with the birds' songs. Looking into that room, you would hardly recognize the gentleman seated near the open window -- Sir Ronald Alden has so greatly changed. No shadow now lingers on his face, his eyes are unclouded, nothing but laughter and love lingers in their depths; the weird, haggard expression that had distorted his handsome, patrician features has left no trace. He had been singing some childish trifle to the little ones at his knee -- the music of children's voices was no longer mute at Aldenmere -- and he was enjoying the perplexed wonder and admiration in each little face. Sir Ronald was neither vain nor singular in believing that two more beautiful children had rarely been seen. The eldest -- the son and heir -- Harry, the future lord of Aldenmere, a princely boy, with the dark Alden face, was perhaps nearest to his father's heart; then came the little girl, baby Clare, who had Lady Hermione's bright, tender face and fair hair. "Little children all his own," as Sir Ronald was never weary of thinking. He who had been so desolate and lonely, so loveless and joyless, was crowned now by this most precious gift. Little children who worshiped him, who hung on his least word, who thought him the cleverest and most mighty of men; little ones whom he could train to carry on the honors of his house, to uphold the glories of his race, those glories that in his hand had so nearly fallen away. As they laughed and sung around him, he was hardly less happy than they.