“Mean?” echoed Gray—“What can I mean—I—I have said nothing. Recollect—I know I said nothing, I am quite sure.” “I know not the cause of your agitation,” remarked Harry; “but I cannot have my poor hound injured.” “He shall die!” shrieked Gray. “Heaven nor hell shall not save him. You don’t know how or why, but you have sealed his fate.” “I sealed his fate?” “Yes, you—you, by your prating of his virtues.” “Impossible, uncle; you do but jest. This noble creature is a safeguard to you as well as to me. Dogs have been known to famish by the murdered body of their master.” “Cease—cease!” cried Gray. “Do you want to drive me mad?” “Mad, uncle, because dogs are faithful?” “No more, I say. Stand aside.” “I will not forsake my dog. Joy, defend yourself.” The dog uttered a low growl, and showed rather a formidable row of glistening teeth. “Harry,” said Gray, “do you know who and what you are?” A mantling flush colour crimsoned the pale brow of the boy, as he said,— “You have told me.” “You know your utter dependence is upon me?” “I know it, and I feel it.” “You are base born.” “You have not omitted to let me know that before,” said the boy, proudly. “So that, although I am your father’s brother,” added Gray, “you call me uncle but by courtesy.” The boy was silent, and Gray continued,— “Stand aside, then, and baulk me not in such a matter as the life of a hound.” “No,” cried Harry; “were you ten times my uncle from courtesy, you should not harm him!” Gray clutched his hands convulsively, as if he felt an inclination to rush upon the weak, defenceless boy, and crush him in his fury. He, however, restrained himself, and said,— “You are mad—quite mad. How can you hope for a moment to resist my will?” “Uncle,” said the boy, “I have done much to please you; I immure myself here alone with you, and you are not always kind, as you know. Once, then, rouse my suffering heart to resentment, and I will leave you but one of two resources.” “What are they?” cried Gray eagerly. “Touch with an unkind hand my poor dumb companion here, and I will fly from window to window of this ill-omened house, shrieking for aid.” “You would?” “Ay, would I, uncle, and you should not stop me by the other alternative.” “And what is that?” “My murder!” “Pshaw!” cried Gray; “you are ill, your mind is deranged. Go to rest.” “God knows I have need of rest,” said the boy. “Come, Joy—come with me.” The dog followed closely upon the heels of the boy as he slowly left the room. When he had quite gone, Gray lit a lamp, and without speaking, stole into the passage and listened attentively. Then returning, he threw himself into the chair in which the boy had been sitting, and commenced a murmuring colloquy with himself.