promise you a father’s affection for your boy. I will write no more at present. The ‘Oriana’ is due in London, I believe, about February 20, and we shall, I need hardly assure you, not linger long before bringing in our own persons to Maxfield whatever sympathy four loving hearts can carry amongst them.

“With love to the dear boy, believe me, dear cousin, your loving and sympathising fellow-mourner,—

“Edward Oliphant.”

Mrs Ingleton, highly gratified, handed the beautiful letter first to her son, then to Mr Armstrong.

Roger was hardly as taken with it as his mother.

“Civil enough,” said he, “and I dare say he means all he says; but I don’t warm to the prospect of being cherished by him. Besides, there is something a trifle too neat in the way he invites his whole family to Maxfield. What do you think, Armstrong?”

Mr Armstrong was perusing the letter with knitted brows and a curl of his lips. He vouchsafed no reply until he had come to the end. Then he shook the glass ominously out of his eye and said—

“I’ll tell you that when I see him.”

Roger knew his tutor well enough to see that he did not like the letter at all, and he felt somewhat fortified in his own misgivings accordingly.

“I wonder what mother will do with them all?” said the boy. “Surely we aren’t to have the place turned into a nursery for two years.”

“I understand the young people are more than children,” said the tutor.

“So much the worse,” growled Roger.

On the morning before the “Oriana” was due, Mrs Ingleton suggested to her son that it would be a polite thing if he were to go to town and meet the travellers on their arrival. Roger, not particularly charmed with the prospect, stipulated that Mr Arm strong should come with him, and somewhat shocked his fond parent by expressing the hope that the vessel might be a few days late, and so allow time for a little jaunt in London before the arrival of his new guardian.

Mr Armstrong meekly acquiesced in the proposal, and scarcely less exhilarated than his pupil, retired to pack for the journey.

Roger meanwhile occupied the interval before starting by writing a letter in the study. Since his father’s death he had taken quiet possession of this room, one of the pleasantest in the house. A feeling of reverence for the dead had prompted him to disturb its contents and furniture as little as possible, and hitherto his occupation had scarcely extended beyond the arm-chair at the fire, and the writing-table. To-day, however, as he sat biting his pen and looking for an inspiration out of the window, his eye chanced to rest for a moment on a frame corner peeping from behind a curtain. He thought nothing of it for a while, and having found his idea, went on writing. But presently his eyes strayed again, and once more lit upon the misplaced piece of gilding.

He went over mechanically to adjust it, pondering his letter all the while.

“Why ever can’t they hang things where they can be seen?” said he as he drew back the curtain.

The last words dropped half-spoken from his lips, as he disclosed the portrait of a certain boy, flashing at him with his reckless eyes, and half-defying him out of the canvas.

Like Mr Armstrong, when he had encountered the picture a month ago, Roger Ingleton instinctively guessed in whose presence he stood.

The discovery had something in it both of a shock and a disappointment. If this was really his elder brother, he was strangely different from what he had in fancy pictured him. He had imagined him his own age, whereas this was a boy considerably his junior. He had imagined him dark and grave, whereas this was fair and mocking; and he had imagined him amiable and sympathetic, whereas this was hostile and defiant.

Yet, for all that, Roger stood fascinated. A chord deep in his nature thrilled as he said to himself, “My brother.” He, the young man, felt himself captive to this imperious boy. He wished he knew the mind of the picture, or could hear its voice. What were the eyes flashing at? At whom or what were the lips thus curled? Was it wickedness, or anger, or insolence, or all together, that made the face so unlike any other face he knew?

How long he spent over these speculations, half afraid, half enamoured of the picture, he could not say. He forgot all about his letter; nor did he finally descend from the clouds till a voice behind him said—

“What have you got there, old fellow?”

“Oh, Armstrong,” said the boy, turning round hurriedly, like one detected in mischief, “look here at this picture.”

The tutor was looking.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“My elder brother, I’m sure. I didn’t know we had it.”

“There’s not much family likeness in it,” said Mr Armstrong. “Are you sure it is he?”

“I feel positive of it. Stay, perhaps there’s something written on the back,” and he lifted the picture from the nail.

The paper at the back was almost black with dust and age. They wiped it carefully with a duster, and took it to the window.

“No,” said Roger, “nothing there.”

“Yes,” said the tutor, “what’s this?”

And he pointed out a few faint marks in very faded ink, which, after considerable trouble, they deciphered.

“R.I., born 3 September 1849, died 186—,” (the last figure was illegible).

“That settles it,” said Roger, “all except the exact date when he died. Upon my word, I’m quite glad it is my brother after all. I shouldn’t have liked if he’d turned out any one else.”

“Do you know,” added he, as he was about to replace the picture, “I think I shall take it up to my room. I’ve taken rather a fancy to him.”

That afternoon the two friends took the train to London, where, considerably to the relief of both, they heard that the “Oriana” was not expected in dock for three days.