eagerly.

“Yes, uncle. I not only believe it possible, but probable. How old would Harvey be if he still lived?”

“Eighteen—nearly a year older than yourself.”

“How strange! I always think of him as a little boy.”

“And I, too, Florence. He rises before me in his little velvet suit, as he was when I last saw him, with his sweet, boyish face, in which his mother’s looks were reflected.”

“Yet, if still living,” interrupted Curtis, harshly, “he is a rough street boy, perchance serving his time at Blackwell’s Island, and, a hardened young ruffian, whom it would be bitter mortification to recognize as your son.”

“That’s the sorrowful part of it,” said his uncle, in a voice of anguish. “That is what I most dread.”

“Then, since even if he were living you would not care to recognize him, why not cease to think of him, or else regard him as dead?”

“Curtis Waring, have you no heart?” demanded Florence, indignantly.

“Indeed, Florence, you ought to know,” said Curtis, sinking his voice into softly modulated accents.

“I know nothing of it,” said Florence, coldly, rising from her recumbent position, and drawing aloof from Curtis.

“You know that the dearest wish of my heart is to find favor in your eyes. Uncle, you know my wish, and approve of it, do you not?”

“Yes, Curtis; you and Florence are equally dear to me, and it is my hope that you may be united. In that case, there will be no division of my fortune. It will be left to you jointly.”

“Believe me, sir,” said Curtis, with faltering voice, feigning an emotion which he did not feel, “believe me, that I fully appreciate your goodness. I am sure Florence joins with me——”

“Florence can speak for herself,” said his cousin, coldly. “My uncle needs no assurance from me. He is always kind, and I am always grateful.”

John Linden seemed absorbed in thought.

“I do not doubt your affection,” he said; “and I have shown it by making you my joint heirs in the event of your marriage; but it is only fair to say that my property goes to my boy, if he still lives.”

“But, sir,” protested Curtis, “is not that likely to create unnecessary trouble? It can never be known, and meanwhile——”

“You and Florence will hold the property in trust.”

“Have you so specified in your will?” asked Curtis.

“I have made two wills. Both are in yonder secretary. By the first the property is bequeathed to you and Florence. By the second and later, it goes to my lost boy in the event of his recovery. Of course, you and Florence are not forgotten, but the bulk of the property goes to Harvey.”

“I sincerely wish the boy might be restored to you,” said Curtis; but his tone belied his words. “Believe me, the loss of the property would affect me little, if you could be made happy by realizing your warmest desire; but, uncle, I think it only the part of a friend to point out to you, as I have already done, the baselessness of any such expectation.”

“It may be as you say, Curtis,” said his uncle, with a sigh. “If I were thoroughly convinced of it, I would destroy the later will, and leave my property absolutely to you and Florence.”

“No, uncle,” said Florence, impulsively, “make no change; let the will stand.”

Curtis, screened from his uncle’s view, darted a glance of bitter indignation at Florence.

“Is the girl mad?” he muttered to himself. “Must she forever balk me?”

“Let it be so for the present, then,” said Mr. Linden, wearily. “Curtis, will you ring the bell? I am tired, and shall retire to my couch early.”

“Let me help you, Uncle John,” said Florence, eagerly.

“It is too much for your strength, my child. I am growing more and more helpless.”

“I, too, can help,” said Curtis.

John Linden, supported on either side by his nephew and niece, left the room, and